


Origins

by obwjam



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Gen, JUST GUYS BEIN DUDES, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, another monkees origin story because we've all read the others already, this is not romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 112,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obwjam/pseuds/obwjam
Summary: Michael Nesmith wanted to hit it big. So he boarded a train to California with just a guitar and the clothes on his back. Now, months later, he's broke, alone and on the streets, struggling with the realization that his music career ended before it had even started. But a mysterious curly-haired boy is determined to pull him out of his slump -- and maybe make a new friend along the way.
Comments: 38
Kudos: 60





	1. First impressions

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! this is inspired by @nesmith-tundra's super adorable mike and micky hc from tumblr. i'm just so obsessed with this dynamic and i promised a fic so here it is! sorry for another origin story and the equally terrible title, but hey, it works. EDIT: this started out as a mike/micky thing, but peter and davy get a backstory too, so don't you worry | monkees sideblog is @monkeesonmymind

Mike wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it.  
  
The heat burned down on him constantly. Sometimes, he’d find a way for the neck of his guitar to shield him from the sun, but the relief was temporary. His ragged brown cardigan was so soaked with sweat that there were now dark brown strap-shaped stains on it. He still didn’t quite understand what prompted him to travel from one boiling hot state to another in pants and a sweater. Probably because he didn’t have many alternative clothing options. With no more than a few cents jangling in his sagging pocket, he had to ration. Food was a priority. He managed to stomach the water from public drinking fountains, despite it being generally warm and metal-tasting. It was free. When he first arrived, he had enough change to bring his clothes to a laundromat, but he soon discovered a paradox: If he was washing his only clothes, what was he going to wear while he waited? He decided that he would play it by ear, which meant he would steal discarded clothes at 3 a.m. that were always either too big or too small, so he always left them behind. But at least it meant he didn’t have to sit in a laundromat naked.  
  
After a few weeks, though, he had resorted to washing one article of clothing at a time in a public fountain. Washing, of course, was a loose use of the word, since he had no soap. He would swipe some from the laundromat when he could, but it didn’t take long for the local authorities to notice that some ragged long-haired weirdo with a guitar was washing his nasty jeans in a public space, so Mike found himself wearing dirty, sweaty clothes for weeks at a time.  
  
The real issue with this, of course, was that nobody wanted anything to do with him. People would hardly throw a glance his way when he plucked his strings while sitting under the shade of an abandoned storefront, silently begging for someone to accidentally drop a quarter from their wallet. He didn’t even bother singing; he found his voice was pretty shot without a healthy diet. At this point, finding a gig was almost out of the question. No sensible club owner would take one sniff at Mike and determine he was good for business, no matter how talented he was. And that was the frustrating part to Mike. The one thing he could hold onto was his talent. But even now, he was starting to question it. _If I’m so talented, why the hell does nobody want me?  
_  
As the sun set on another useless day, Mike bent down by his usual fountain and took a handful of water, splashing it onto his reddened face. He did this routine with several other homeless wanderers. At first, he avoided them -- they smelled, they were strange and they would talk his ear off if he got within a 50-foot radius. But after a while, he began to realize he was only hating himself, because he was exactly like them. He had nowhere to go and no money to do anything.  
  
Today, though, there were no words to be exchanged. In the mid-August heat, there was little to be said. Everyone was so worn down from the 100-degree afternoons that by the time the sun dipped below the buildings, energy was spent cooling down. It was so, _so_ hot today. Mike guessed the temperature had reached at least 110. California didn’t get humid like Texas, but in the months since Mike made the move, he hadn’t felt a day as hot as this. No winds to cool him off, either. If he closed his eyes, he could have sworn he was sitting on the porch of his ranch house again.  
  
Sighing, Mike gently lay his guitar down and stripped off his shirt and his cardigan, scrunching his nose at both the sight and the smell. He tossed them both into the cool fountain water, swirling them around to give the illusion that he was cleaning them. He felt a chill go up his back when a small breeze danced up his spine. He shuddered, which prompted him to notice just how much his ribs poked through his thinning chest. The only thing he had to eat today was a muffin from some bake shop, and that was only because the nice young lady working at the counter had noticed Mike outside the shop, looking ragged and defeated. She had placed a paper bag next to him without even making eye contact.  
  
He felt a sudden nudge in his side. It was one of the other homeless people. He was about 30, with a thick beard but striking blue eyes and a sharp jawline. He was the most gorgeous homeless person Mike had ever seen.  
  
“Jerry found an entire cake in the garbage. Guessin’ someone’s name was misspelled on it. He’s sharing it with everyone.”  
  
Mike glanced up, noticing four other people sitting tightly in a circle a few hundred feet from him. Grabbing his clothes from the fountain and wringing them out, he picked up his guitar and followed the other man to the circle. He sheepishly sat down when they scooted to make room for him, and they silently dug into the cake with their hands. Mike decided it was the best tasting cake he had ever had, even though it had way too much frosting and too much jelly in the middle. He didn't even think about how pathetic he felt. Right now, this cake was perfect.  
  
“That’s a guitar?” One of the others -- Jerry -- suddenly spoke.  
  
It took Mike a second to realize he was being talked to. He glanced over to his case and nodded, not daring to test how hoarse his voice was.  
  
“Groovy, man. You should play something.”  
  
“Jerry, come on, you can’t just make him play,” the man with the blue eyes said.  
  
“Aw, come on! He’s always playing it. I wanna hear.”  
  
As blue-eyes prepared to retaliate, Mike cleared his throat.  
  
“It’s alright,” he spoke, his first words in what felt like weeks. His voice was low and rough. He sounded like a stranger. “Jerry got us a cake. ‘S the least I can do to repay him.”  
  
Jerry, along with a few others, whooped and cheered as Mike unzipped his case, pulling out his cheap brown Fender. He loved it, as much as one could love an objective piece of crap. But it was his first and only guitar, and he cherished it with his life.  
  
That much was evident as he began to play for the small group of misfits. Despite his terrible situation, he played with as much heart and soul as he did when he first arrived. After playing a few of his own creations, he found himself playing familiar pop tunes that they could all sing along to. Mike didn’t sing, but he hummed, and he smiled his first real smile in months.  
  
As long as he had music, he would be alright.  
  


“Hey, man, wake up. Hey.”  
  
Mike groaned, wondering why someone was talking to him. He forced his eyes open, and the sky had that the-sun-is-about-to-rise light blue tint to it.  
  
“Huh…?” Mike sat up, realizing he was lying on the grass. Oh, right. He was homeless.  
  
“Hey, man, I’m, uh, I’m real sorry, but someone was messing with your guitar and one of the strings snapped.”  
  
Mike blinked. “What?”  
  
“Look, man, I’m real sorry,” the man-- the one with the blue eyes -- said. “I told ‘em to stop. But he kept turnin’ those little pegs and a string just snapped. They all ran off.”  
  
Mike had now fully processed what was happening. He had fallen asleep soon after the singalong had died down. He had packed his guitar up, but someone had gone over to it and pulled it out to mess with it. They had touched it.  
  
Mike scrambled to his feet and ran over to where his guitar lay. It was just him and blue-eyes now. Everyone else had fled the scene when the string broke. They knew what his reaction would be.  
  
“No…” Mike breathed, gently hovering his hand underneath the curled-up top half of the string. It was the D string, too. Right in the middle.  
  
Mike could feel the anger boiling up inside him. He hadn’t felt genuinely angry in a long, long time. He usually just felt disappointment, or exasperation, or self-pity. But who was he going to direct his anger at? Blue-eyes, who had been the only one to stick around when everyone else ran off? Whoever did this was already long gone. The only logical person to direct his anger at was himself, for letting this happen. For letting his guard down. For thinking he could trust anybody.  
  
“I’m real sorry, man,” blue-eyes said again.  
  
Mike ignored him. He knew if he opened his mouth, he would snap, and blue-eyes didn’t deserve that. Instead, he walked back over to where he fell asleep, pulling his still-damp shirt over his head and tying his cardigan around his waist. He packed his guitar back up and walked off. He wanted to forget he had ever been over there.  
  
As the sun began to rise on another hot, useless day, Mike kept his eyes out for a music store. He didn’t care what the cost was, he had to get himself a new string. He dug through his loose pockets and found he had a smattering of dimes, nickels and pennies. 58 cents. That would buy him a pastry, but who knows about guitar strings.  
  
After 30 minutes of walking, he found what had to be the only music store in LA that was open at 6 a.m. He started to push the door, but stopped. Stepping off to the side, he nonchalantly lifted his arm and took a whiff. He had to close his eyes from the stench.  
  
_There’s no way they’ll allow me in here_. He was just some dirty hobo off the street with a broken, cheap guitar. He couldn’t possibly fool the store owner into thinking he was a musician.  
_But if you don’t go in there, you can’t play._ And, home or no home, all Mike had was his playing. If he couldn’t do that, then he really had no purpose. And he didn’t want to give up. Not yet.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open, cringing at the overzealous bell that jingled at the top of the door. Thankfully, he was the only person inside. He didn’t know why he thought other people would be here before the sun was even up.  
  
He tried his hardest to avoid looking at the instruments. He really did. It would only serve as a torturous mental game. But he couldn’t tear his eyes off the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. She was a perfect blond, not too bleached out and not too dark. The kind of blond that made you long for a summer memory that you’ve never even experienced. She was sculpted beautifully, with curves in all the right places. She was plump on the bottom but skinnied up at the top, and she had the most beautifully sculpted neck Mike had ever seen. All 12 strings seemed to glisten in the early morning sunlight, each with their own unique glint to it.  
  
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”  
  
Mike jumped at the voice behind him. A man in his 50s, with stubble scattered on his face and thick black glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, stood behind him. He was taller than Mike, which both surprised and  
intimidated him.  
  
“That Gretsch is brand-new, too,” he said, walking around a frozen Mike and gently taking it off its place on the wall. “Just got it in a few days ago.”  
  
“It’s perfect,” Mike managed to say.  
  
The storekeeper laughed. “You’ve got good taste, kid.”  
  
Mike kept staring at the guitar. His mind had drifted off into fantasy land, a land where he stood on stage with that Gretsch, his fingers masterfully maneuvering all 12 strings like nobody’s business. Thousands of fans screamed his name. He was making music for them. He was making them happy.  
  
“...are you interested?”  
  
Mike snapped back to the real world, completely missing the rest of what the store owner had said.  
  
“Wha-- no. Oh, no. I can’t afford that,” he laughed. “I could never afford that.”  
  
“Never say never, kid,” the man shrugged, putting the guitar back up. “I find that instruments like this find their homes quite easily.”  
  
Mike wasn’t sure if he meant that in a prolific way or a rich-people-LA way, but he brushed it off. He had a mission.  
  
“I, uhm, I was wonderin’ if you’ve got any D strings?”  
  
The man shook his head. “Not individuals. We only sell ours in packs,” he said, pulling a bright pink package off the back wall and plopping it on the front counter. “$1.”  
  
Mike’s heart sank. One dollar. One god damn dollar. One measly little dollar that he didn’t even have.  
  
“Is there any way to just, well, take the D string out? I only need one, you see,” he said, rapidly unzipping his guitar and putting in on the counter. The man raised his eyebrow, but shook his head firmly.  
  
“Sorry, kid. Nobody’s gonna buy an incomplete pack of strings. The whole thing’s only a dollar.”  
  
Mike scoffed at ‘only a dollar.’ He couldn’t believe he had gotten to a place where he thought people were pretentious for thinking a dollar was a small amount.  
  
“Oh,” was all Mike could muster. “S-sorry to waste your time.” He gingerly picked up his guitar and walked out of the store before the owner could get another word in.  
  
He slumped out of the store, broken guitar in hand and head hanging low. He didn’t notice someone else walking in as he walked out, and the neck of his guitar bumped into them as he turned the corner.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbled, not even looking up as he pulled his guitar away. The person opened their mouth to say something, but Mike was gone before he could blink.  
  
The rest of Mike’s day went just as poorly as his morning. With no guitar, he felt broken. He tried finger picking on the remaining strings, but it sounded empty and incomplete. He was tempted to buy something for breakfast, but ultimately decided against it. Not only did he still feel pretty full from last night’s cake, but he only needed 42 more cents to reach a dollar. 42 more cents to fix his guitar and get his life back on track. That was more than doable. This was just another hurdle he had to clear, and he was still running the race.  
  
Problem was, he didn’t know how he was going to make any money with no guitar to play. His singing voice wasn’t _that_ good, he thought. He either needed to get real lucky or steal. So he slung his guitar case behind his back and began intently examining the sidewalks. People looked at him like he was crazy, of course, but that wasn’t much different than normal. After hours of searching, he had only mustered up 7 more cents. People dropped money less frequently than he would have guessed.  
  
As the sun reached its peak in the sky and cast down its blazing heat, Mike decided it was time for a break. He closed his eyes as he swallowed down some water from the park fountain before plopping underneath a large tree. He observed the scene around him: children, laughing and yelling and running around in circles, enjoying the final weeks of summer vacation without a care in the world. Adults, chatting away with each other as their kids played with frisbees and jump ropes and rubber balls. Teens, goofing off and hanging from trees and shoving each other to the ground. Mike didn’t fit in with any of these groups. He wasn’t a kid, and he sure wasn’t a dumb teen anymore. He was 21, so legally, he was an adult. But he wasn’t like these other adults. He, like everyone else, associated adults with success. Put-togetherness. Money. Three things Mike severely lacked at the moment.  
  
But different among the slew of people playing in the park was a person, probably about Mike’s age, but maybe younger. They were staring straight at Mike, giving him a look that was unreadable from 100 yards away. But somehow, through the thick air, Mike could feel the heat of this person's stare on him. Mike moved his head up to get a good look at them, but he only caught the back of them as they rapidly walked away. Was this person even looking at him? Maybe Mike was going delirious. It didn’t seem like the most nonsensical conclusion to draw.  
  
As Mike continued to survey the scene around him, he felt his eyelids growing heavy. Sleep wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world right now. Even though the last time he tried taking a daytime nap, a concerned citizen called the police on him for being “a danger” to her kids. He was feeling almost deathly tired. Plus, he had literally nothing to do, and he should probably let some time pass before checking the streets for change again. And he felt… sad. Disappointed in himself for getting into this mess in the first place. Suddenly, he found himself regretting making the move at all. _No_ , he thought, _this will all work out. I just need to keep trying._ He sighed deeply, letting his sadness overtake him. He was out like a light.  
  


When Mike awoke, it was pitch black. He must have been asleep for at least eight hours. _Eight straight hours_. That was an impressive feat, considering he was at his lowest point and he was in the middle of a public park with screaming kids and concerned adults. But all the kids were gone now, replaced by couples who gazed longingly at each other as they walked hand-in-hand down the snaking paths. They didn’t so much as breathe in Mike’s direction, which was a huge relief, because as soon as he woke up he suddenly remembered that weird person that was staring at him earlier. After a few seconds of sitting still, he determined he could no longer feel the stare, so they were gone. Why was he thinking about this person so much?  
  
Mike sighed and got up, chalking up his jumbled thoughts to heat exhaustion. Grabbing the guitar, he began to make his way down the street, hunched over as he looked for any kind of change in the dark. Suddenly, a glint of something shiny caught his eye by a trash can. He nearly gasped as he laid his eyes on a quarter. A quarter! That was triple the amount he had found all morning! He ran over to it like a madman, snatching it up before anyone else could. Adding 25 to his existing 65 and that got him to… 90 cents. All he needed was a dime!  
  
Now filled with new motivation, Mike practically skipped along the sidewalk in search of more change. But his hopes were fading as he scoured empty sidewalk after empty sidewalk. After nearly an hour of walking, he was about to give up and head back to the park when he stopped. He had, inadvertently, found his way back to the music store. The hours posted on the storefront said they close at 9. Mike glanced at his watch: 8:53.  
  
Mike dug into his pocket and stared at his 90 cents. He was so close, he could feel it. He would definitely be able to find a dime soon. But was he really willing to wait? Nearly a day had gone by without having his guitar and he had never felt more depressed in his life. He took an eight hour nap in public. If that wasn’t a telltale sign that something was wrong, he didn’t know what was.  
  
Taking a breath, he pushed the door open, already used to the obnoxious bell. This time, Mike kept his gaze locked on the front counter.  
  
“Ah! You’re back!” the shopkeeper almost sounded amused that Mike had returned.  
  
Mike didn’t say a word as he slapped his 90 cents on the glass counter, making the owner wince.  
  
“Look, I know you said it’s a dollar, but this is all I have,” Mike said, his voice uncharacteristically desperate. “It’s 90 cents. I--I can find 10 more cents another day, I can, but I really, really need those strings, man.”  
  
The owner was shocked. He had assumed Mike was just some wayward hippie, captivated by psychedelics and the look of modern music with no real regard for the art of it -- he certainly smelled the part. But he didn’t expect Mike to burst in, seven minutes before closing time, absolutely fixated on mustering up enough money to get guitar strings. The look in the young man’s eyes was almost wild, like he would do _anything_ for those strings.  
  
Before the shopkeeper could open his mouth to respond, someone dropped a crisp dollar bill on top of the pile of change.  
  
“On me,” the boy said, and Mike realized that this was the person that had been staring at him in the park. In fact, this was the same person he bumped into on his way out the store that morning. He had a head full of curly brown hair, and his almond-shaped eyes seemed to sparkle, though Mike didn’t know how or why. His face kind of looked like it had been flattened, but he was good-looking. The corners of his mouth seemed to twitch, as if he had gone too long without smiling and was just dying for an excuse to. He was wearing a collared, short-sleeve shirt and light brown khaki pants. Mike then noticed the name tag pinned to his chest. It simply read _Micky_.  
  
Mike stared, incredulous. He had no words. He had been bending over backwards to find enough change, and this boy just dropped down a dollar like it was nothing. But he couldn’t get mad at him, because he was feeling too much relief.  
  
“If you say so, Mick,” the owner said, picking up the dollar and ringing up the register. He slid the pack of strings to Mike, whose mouth was still agape. “All yours. On the house,” he winked. He frowned at Mike’s still-shocked expression. “Take your change back, kiddo. Micky just paid for your strings.” He shoved the coins back at Mike, who gingerly took them back. “Technically, that’s my dollar…” he mumbled, walking off to the back room before calling back out.  
  
“MICKY! CLOSE UP!”  
  
“You got it, Al!” Micky responded immediately. Before Mike could utter a sound, Micky was off, dashing around the store to make sure everything was in its place before closing up for the night. Mike blinked, convinced that this Micky boy was moving at superhuman speed. Al came out from the back, giving Mike a strange glance upon seeing that he was still there and he hadn’t touched the strings. He caught him gawking at Micky and had to huff a laugh.  
  
“You’re opening again tomorrow, right?” Al asked, halfway out the door.  
  
Micky nodded as he organized some records. “Yeah. I’ve got opening and closing. Peter’s still MIA.”  
  
Al shook his head. “Well, he’s certainly not getting his job back when he shows back up. Remember, I’m not coming in tomorrow, so it’s all you, kiddo. You have a good night, alright?”  
  
Micky smiled. It was a warm, genuine smile. The kind of smile someone gives when they have sincere admiration for the other. The smile of someone unabashedly loyal. Mike decided that he liked that smile.  
  
“You too,” he said, giving Al a wave as he left the store.  
  
Now they were alone.  
  
Micky spent the next few minutes making sure everything was in its proper place. He had a big task ahead of him-- tomorrow would be his first day in the store alone. Al had talked endlessly about how much he needed to help his wife take care of their new baby, and Micky was insistent on running the store himself so Al could spend a few days at home. Al’s store was everything to him, but he agreed, partly to get Micky to shut up about it. He was excited that he would be doing this on his own, but terrified. What if there was a question he couldn’t answer?  
  
He snapped out of his thoughts when he remembered this dirty, disheveled homeless boy still standing at the counter.  
  
“Sorry, I’ll be done in a second,” Micky said, running behind the counter. It took Mike a minute to realize that he was talking to _him_.  
  
When Micky emerged from the back room, his hair looked even more wild than before. He had slipped on a jacket and held two sets of keys in his hand, though neither looked like car keys. He flicked a light switch and the whole store went dark, save for the soft glow of the lights illuminating the display case they stood in front of.  
  
“Hi,” Micky breathed, a smile plastered on his face. “I’m Micky.”  
  
Mike nodded. He already knew that, of course. “Mike,” he said after a few seconds.  
  
“Mike! Groovy! My middle name is Michael. ‘S where the Micky comes from.”  
  
_My middle name is Michael, too,_ Mike thought, but didn’t say. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.  
  
“Well, anyway, I’ve been seeing you around town--” Micky started, walking to the door. Mike was still standing in place. “Mike? You coming?”  
  
Mike tentatively looked over, caught off-guard by the fact that Micky said he had seen him around town. Now embarrassed, he grabbed his guitar and newly paid-for strings and breezed past Micky. When he finished locking up, he turned back to Mike.  
  
“What I was saying was, I’ve seen you around town for a while. I’ve seen you play and, well, you almost impaled me with your guitar this morning,” he chuckled. Mike offered a weak smile, keeping his gaze cast down. “And, well… I kind of followed you on my lunch break.”  
  
Mike shot him a look, a little confused and a little creeped out.  
  
“Sorry!” Micky put his hands up defensively. “I was just… I dunno. I was hoping you’d be playing, but you weren’t. And-and you looked real tired, and I had to get back to work, so I left. And then, eight hours later… you turn up in the store, with not even a dollar. And what’s a guitarist without his guitar!” he said, gesturing to the case. Mike followed his eyes, but didn’t say anything.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Micky said suddenly, surprising Mike. “I didn’t-- i-if you don’t want them, I can bring them back inside. Here, I’ve got the keys. I can just unlock the door and take the dollar back--”  
  
“No,” Mike spoke up. Micky looked at him expectantly.  
  
“I… t-thanks,” he mumbled. He couldn’t believe Micky felt bad for helping him.  
  
“Oh. Uhm, you’re welcome,” Micky said softly, pocketing the keys.  
  
“You…” he glanced up and down at Mike. “Where do you live?”  
  
Mike didn’t answer.  
  
“Sorry, dumb question,” he said, looking down at his own tattered shoes. Suddenly, a light went off in his head.  
  
“Stay with me!”  
  
“Wh--what?” Mike couldn’t believe what he just heard.  
  
“Yeah! Stay with me for the night,” he said, grabbing Mike’s arm. He was too shocked to shake him off. “I--I know you barely know me, and-and it’s a little weird and we’re total strangers, but I keep seeing you sleeping on a park bench or under a tree and that’s not cool, man. I can’t just sit by and not at least offer up my place to you.” Micky saw Mike’s eyes go wide at his wording. “B-but, you don’t have to say yes. I mean, I’d love it if you did, I think it’d be a gas, but, but I understand if you don’t want to. I can’t force you to say yes. Even though I really want you to.”  
  
Mike was so thrown by Micky’s manic energy that he could barely process what was happening. He was offering up his place for the night. That’s what he said. Just the night. There was no way he’d let Mike stay there any longer; it wasn’t like Mike would offer up his place to a dirty stranger if he had the chance. It wasn’t Mike’s place to mooch off this boy. He had already paid for his guitar strings and offered Mike a place to stay without Mike saying more than five words to him. He was being way too kind. He definitely pitied him.  
  
But Mike couldn’t possibly pass up on a shower. It had literally been months since he had taken one, and that thought alone was enough to get him to shyly nod his head.  
  
“Was that a nod? Was that a yes?!” Micky practically shouted. Mike winced at his volume, but nodded again.  
  
“Groovy! Alright!” Micky, who had never let go of Mike’s arm, began dragging him down the street.  
  
“You’re gonna love it, man. It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s got this groovy oven with two separate doors! It takes up most of the kitchen, though, and I don’t cook well, so I barely use it. I’ve got my bedroom, but you can sleep on the couch. It’s real comfy, I promise. Prob’ly a lot more comfy than a park bench.”  
  
As Micky continued to talk and talk and _talk_ about his place, Mike didn’t say a word. He had no words to say. Even ‘thank you’ didn’t seem sufficient enough. On his lowest day since coming to California, he had been inexplicably saved by this hyperactive boy with a loud mouth and a big smile. This boy who he had only known for all of five minutes. He didn’t exactly feel comfortable invading his space, but something about Micky made Mike a lot less nervous than he thought he’d be. It didn’t mean he was thrilled about this, not by any means. But for the first time since boarding that fateful train all those months ago, he finally felt good about something.


	2. 'Cause I'm leavin' in the morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> micky’s tiny apartment is directly inspired by my own past abode in manhattan, but it's definitely bigger than what i had to live in!

Mike didn’t know why, but he had assumed they would be walking to Micky’s car. That was 10 minutes ago, when they were still standing outside the store. Now, they were several blocks down the street and it occurred to Mike that Micky probably didn’t _have_ a car. He had just assumed everyone in LA did. 

“Sorry we gotta walk all this way,” Micky said, almost sensing Mike’s thoughts. “I’ve been saving for a car for months, though. Hopefully I can get a decent one for cheap and fix her up. I love doing that kind of stuff.”

 _Me too_ , Mike thought. Even if he wanted to respond, he wouldn’t have been able to, because Mike was pretty sure Micky hadn’t taken a breath since meeting him. At this point, he didn’t even know what he was talking about. He spaced out for a minute, and suddenly Micky was talking about the wonders of goat cheese. Mike didn’t even _want_ to know. 

“...so sorry if my fridge smells bad,” Micky said, staring up at the night sky. “My mom goes through all kinds of health kicks and just drops all this weird stuff off for me when I’m not there, ‘cause that’s the only time she knows she can get away with it.”

That got Mike thinking. How often was Micky at his own place? Mike had bumped into him when the store opened, which was 6 a.m., and again at closing, which was 9 p.m. Had he worked an entire 15-hour day? He remembered Micky saying something in passing about a coworker who just stopped showing up about two weeks ago. From the sound of it, Micky was the only employee in that store. And now he was going to work open to close by himself tomorrow. Mike guessed he really wouldn’t be getting that much sleep if Micky was going to be gone at the crack of dawn, but he was going to savor every moment he could.

After 20 minutes of walking, they finally arrived at a skinny, dirty brick building sandwiched between other terrible-looking places. The windows looked like they were on the verge of breaking and the front steps up to the main door were chipped and crumbling. The exterior was once blue, Mike guessed, but it was so smudged and caked with dirt and vines that it was bordering on black. 

Micky caught Mike staring at the building. “Sorry, it’s not much,” he said, echoing his sentiment from earlier. “It looks a lot better inside, I promise.”

Hearing Micky apologize for the umpteenth time, Mike realized that he had no right to be judging Micky or the building he lived in. If the roles were reversed, Mike wouldn’t have even cast a glance at Micky. He couldn’t understand why this boy was being so nice to him.

Micky pulled out his other set of keys and unlocked the front door. The hinges quietly squeaked and the bottom scraped against the ground, but the door had been opened and closed so many times that it had created an indent in the tile. Mike gingerly stepped inside, unsure of where to go. There was a hallway to his left, a mailrool to his right and a staircase right in front of him.

“Going up!” Micky said cheerfully, skipping a step as he began to bound up the stairs. Mike barely had enough energy to make it up to the top. How was Micky not exhausted?

They walked down a dingy, dimly-lit hallway, Mike’s worn-down boots scraping against the brown tile. With Micky leading the way, Mike glanced down at his feet. The white adidas sneakers he was wearing were almost as worn down as his own shoes.

They finally reached a door at the end of the hall. “Corner room,” Micky said, fumbling with the keys. “The pinnacle of luxury in this place.”

Mike smirked as Micky pushed the door open. “Welcome to Casa de Micky,” he said in a surprisingly good Spanish accent. He flicked a switch and a blinding fluorescent light illuminated the room, causing Mike to wince for a moment. It was a small space, with the kitchen immediately to his right. Well, it wasn’t so much of a kitchen as it was a row of appliances. That groovy two-door oven was tucked into the corner right by the door. There was a small bit of counter space between the stovetop and the small round sink. Pushed up right next to the sink was a clunky ice box. There were two cabinets above the counters and one small one above the ice box, but that was it. There was a small, round dining table up against the wall immediately next to the ice box that was almost unrecognizable as a table with the amount of junk that was piled on it. There was a small hallway snaking to the right of the table, which was probably where the bathroom was. The rest of the space was the living room. There were two large windows on the wall, but judging from the placement and height of Micky’s building, he guessed the place didn’t get a lot of natural light. A black leather couch was pushed up against the wall as far as it could go before hitting the heating and cooling unit behind it. A small brown coffee table stood between the couch and the TV, which was perched by itself on a folding table on the opposite wall. To the right of the couch was another room, which Mike guessed was the bedroom. Micky was right -- it wasn’t much, but it was something. Way more than Mike had at the moment.

“Feel free to put your guitar down wherever!” Micky said, brushing past his guest and ducking into the bedroom. He threw his jacket and keys on the bed before popping his head back through the threshold.

“Stay right there,” he said, quickly disappearing back to his room. Mike didn’t know where else he could have possibly gone to, but after a few seconds, something hit him in the face, nearly knocking his hat off his head.

Mike stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over a stack of junk Micky had next to his door. Utterly confused, he pulled whatever was thrown off of him. It was… a shirt?

“Sorry, sorry!” Micky cried, the sound muffled as he rummaged through drawers. He pulled out a worn-down pair of sweatpants and grinned.

“Here,” he said, opting to hand Mike the clothes this time instead of throwing them at him. 

Mike stared down at the clothes then back up to Micky. His eyes did all the talking for him.

“They’re for you!” 

Mike was shocked. “...to keep?”

Micky smiled, mostly because he was happy whenever Mike talked. “If you want, sure! I barely wear these anymore. I hope they fit you. You’re a little bit taller,” he observed, taking his hand and comparing their heights. Mike found himself smiling at Micky measuring from the top of his hair and not his forehead. That hair added an extra three inches.

“Seriously, if you need anything, just take it,” Micky said, wheeling back around and walking to the coffee table. “I like to collect stuff, as you can see.” He kicked some things underneath the couch. “But if anything catches your eye, you can keep it. I won’t get sad.”

Mike couldn’t tell if Micky was being serious or not, but he most certainly was not going to take any of his things. He was only going to be here overnight, anyway. He had already decided he wasn’t going to keep Micky’s clothes.

“Oh, the bathroom’s right through there,” Micky said, pointing to the short hallway next to the ice box. Mike stayed frozen to his spot for a moment, feeling sorely out of place. Even though it wasn’t the most impressive apartment, Mike was still a stranger off the streets. And Micky was acting like they were childhood friends. He almost didn’t want to be here. He had to admit, it was a lot easier to manage his thoughts when he was alone, and this boy had thrown so much information at him in the last hour that he didn’t know _what_ to think anymore. But he had to keep reminding himself that this was only for the night. When he woke up in a few hours, he wouldn’t have to worry about this anymore. Maybe he’d run into Micky from time to time.

Quietly, as if not to disturb Micky, Mike put his guitar down by the TV, shuffled over to the bathroom and slowly closed the door. He slipped out of his gross, smelly clothes and into these fresh ones. They had some funny stains on them, but they were soft and smelled faintly of oranges. The bathroom was small, with barely enough room to shuffle in and out of clothes. Mike peeked behind the shower curtain and was surprised to find that it was pretty clean. There was plenty of soap and shampoo for him to use, and the whole shower smelled like citrus. Mike hadn’t smelled anything this good in months. He found himself staring at the shower for an unhealthy amount of time, dreaming about using it instead of _just going in to use it._ He was _staring_ at the damn thing.

But he quickly realized that he needed to ask permission. Micky was clearly a giving person, but it would be weird if Mike just started using the shower without asking. Plus, he needed a towel.

So, very slowly, he opened the bathroom door back up. Micky’s head whipped up from his place on the couch, where he was stacking envelopes. 

“They fit!” he cheered, clearly proud of himself for selecting such fine pieces of clothing.

Mike stared at him for a few moments, stomach churning. “Uh… can I… can I use the shower?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Micky’s mouth fell wide open. “Yes! Of course! Yeah!” he said, leaping off the couch. He opened a small closet in the hallway right next to Mike and pulled out a clean towel, shoving it into Mike’s chest. “You don’t need to ask, Mike! Mi casa es su casa,” he said with a grin, breaking out the Spanish accent again. Was this going to be a common occurrence?

The look on Mike’s face told Micky everything he needed to know. “I’m serious,” he said, a little calmer this time. “I want you to feel comfortable here. If there’s anything you need, and I mean it, _anything_ , just ask. Food, water, whatever. It’s yours. I’m happy to share.” He paused for a moment. “And take as long as you need in the shower. Seriously,” he said with that bright, warm smile. Mike had quickly figured out how that smile differed from the others. It was clear to him that Micky was an entertainer-- the accents, the antics, the shouting. He had a smile he put on when he was telling jokes or doing a voice. It was a pure entertainer's smile, whose only job was to please the crowd. But the warm smile that Micky had given him was coming straight from him. It had that sincerity to it. The way Micky’s eyes would tighten up at the corners, getting more narrow than they already were; the way his mouth naturally fell into that position; the way his flat little nose would slightly scrunch in. His smile brightened up his whole face and said more to Mike than Micky’s words ever could. 

Mike, in return, found himself giving Micky a small smile right back. “Thank you,” he said, more complete than any string of words he’d managed to throw together thus far. Realizing this, he ducked back into the bathroom and closed the door before Micky could even react.

Mike took a 45-minute shower.

It was, unequivocally, the best shower Mike had ever taken. The water stayed warm _the whole time_. He shampooed his hair three times, because every time he rinsed he saw some dirt wash down the drain. He just kept scrubbing until the soapy water stayed white. For at least 10 minutes, he stood still, leaning his head against the wall and breathing in the steam and citrus. For the first time since moving, his mind was blank. He only thought about how much he was enjoying this feeling. He watched the water run down his body, not even caring how frail he looked right now. This was real. This was happening. He finally shut the water off when his fingers started to prune up so much he thought the calluses on his fingers had washed away. When the water stopped, it was like reality flooded its way back into the space again. Mike immediately remembered where he was. He knew Micky was probably bouncing off the walls at the sound of the water turning off. That shower felt _so damn good_ , it almost made Mike want to ask if he could stay a bit longer. Almost. If Micky was _really_ sincere about his hospitality, Mike could just occasionally ask to come over and take a shower. Right? 

Mike blinked hard. Why was he even thinking about that? This was temporary. Just for the night. Micky himself said so. There’s no way he wanted Mike to stay any longer than that, no matter how nice he was.

Mike toweled off and slipped back into Micky’s clothes, fluffing up his hair a bit in the mirror. He had a horribly long beard and sideburns by now that he desperately wanted to get rid of. He stood still for a moment, listening for any sign of Micky. When he heard nothing, he coughed and opened the medicine cabinet. There was an array of pill bottles that intrigued Mike for a moment, but he soon thought better than to pry. He spotted one razor, but not a spare. Guess he would have to keep his beard. His eyes wandered through the shelves and eventually found what he was looking for: toothpaste.

Now equipped with clean hands, he applied a generous amount to his fingertip and rubbed it all along his teeth, which were a pale shade of yellow. He did this several times, scrubbing as much as he could with his finger until it started to feel gross. He quickly rinsed and smacked his tongue a few times. Minty fresh.

Feeling satisfied, Mike decided it was finally time to go back into the living room. He awkwardly opened the door, fumbling with the loose knob a bit. He peeked out and saw Micky with thick circle glasses on, sitting horizontally on the couch and tinkering around with a few pieces of scrap metal. Mike found that odd, but didn’t say anything.

It took Micky a moment to register Mike was there. He haphazardly put the metal on the side table next to the couch and sat up.

“How was the shower?” he asked with a smirk.

Mike blushed. “Good,” he mumbled.

“I hope so. You were in there for ages,” Micky swung his legs around and sat upright. He noticed how Mike tensed up when he said that. “Not that that’s a bad thing! I’m glad you took your time. Hey, if you wanna shave, I can go out and buy a razor tomorrow. I only have one left.”

Mike was starting to become convinced that Micky was a mindreader. 

“I know it’s late and you just washed up, but do you want anything to eat?” Micky asked, getting up and walking to the kitchen. “I’ve got… let’s see…” he opened up the ice box and immediately staggered back, waving his hand. “Plenty of stinky goat cheese,” he said with a smile. “Uh, I’ve got… oh! Some pizza… an apple--oh, two apples! Didn’t realize that was an apple. Umm…”

Truthfully, Mike wanted to devour his entire ice box, goat cheese and all. But besides the fact that he just brushed his teeth, he didn’t feel comfortable taking Micky’s food. It wasn’t like he lived in luxury-- this apartment couldn’t have been more than 600 square feet, and from what Mike could see into the ice box, there wasn’t a whole lot in there. The last thing he wanted to do was make this boy’s life any more difficult than it already appeared to be. 

“...anything jump out atcha?” Micky turned back, looking expectantly at Mike. The Texan just shook his head.

“Oh. Okay,” Micky said with a surprising amount of dismay. “Well, if you get hungry. It’s all there.”

Mike nodded, suddenly taking a lot of interest in the scratches on the floor. Micky sighed. He could tell Mike was a bit jumpy and shy, but he was a lot more reserved than Micky initially thought. He could count on both hands how many words Mike had spoken to him. He felt a desperate urge to keep talking and keep prying to get him to say something, _anything_ , but he ultimately decided against it when a wave of exhaustion overtook him. He had been up since 5 a.m. and he had to prepare for an entire day at the store alone tomorrow and then a half-day at the mechanic’s on Saturday before going back to the music store to finish out the night. Al was taking the whole weekend off, which meant Micky got no days off. He was the one who insisted Al take a break, but when the weight of all his tasks had finally hit him, he wasn’t so sure that was a good idea anymore.

“I’m, uh. I’m gonna get some sleep, I think,” Micky said, rubbing his neck. “I’m at the store from 6 to 9 tomorrow, so I’ll be up pretty early. I’ll try to be quiet.”

Something told Mike that probably wouldn’t happen.

“And I’ve got a shift at the mechanic’s on Saturday, then the store from noon ‘till close at 6. Then 12 to 6 again on Sunday.” Micky sighed and let out a small laugh. “It’s gonna be a long weekend.”

Mike’s expression had quickly shifted from uncomfortable to concerned. He could surely understand the struggle of needing to get enough cash, but… it looked like Micky was exhausted. Surely this place didn’t cost _that_ much to rent. He was practically working three jobs with all the hours he was spending elsewhere.

“It’s okay,” Micky laughed, noticing Mike’s face. “This is normal.” Suddenly, as if someone had flicked a switch in his mind, his eyes went wide.

“Oh! Man, I almost forgot! You need pillows and stuff!” 

And he was gone, rummaging through a closet in his bedroom. One by one, pillows were thrown onto the couch, landing on the leather with surprising accuracy. A blanket was next, followed by a head of messy curly hair.

“There. Those are my fluffiest pillows, man. You’re gonna get the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had.”

Mike made his way to the couch, organizing the abundance of fluffy pillows and clutching the blanket, which he wasn’t even sure he’d need in this heat. 

“You probably won’t need all three of those, but you can never have too many pillows!” Micky said with more joy than Mike could ever dream of having. This boy got excited over everything, didn’t he?

“S-sorry you have to sleep on the couch,” Micky said. “I’ve only got the one bed. I hope it’s alright.”

Mike pressed his hands down into the couch. It was _more_ than alright, because it wasn’t a damp patch of grass in the middle of a public park. 

“Well, sleep tight, Mike,” Micky said with a yawn, giving in to his exhaustion and clicking the lamp off. 

“G’night,” Mike murmured, not loud enough for Micky to hear. After Micky closed his bedroom door, Mike organized the pillows, putting two down on the floor and taking the fluffiest one for sleeping. He tossed the blanket out and curled up underneath it, sitting up sharply when he felt a pain in his back. He sat up and pulled out a wire that was stuck between the couch cushions. Mike placed it on the side table next to the other weird scraps that Micky had laying around, letting out a deep sigh before laying back down and pulling the blanket up. He was a lot colder than he thought. As he settled in, the strangeness of the last few hours hit him. He was literally picked up off the streets by a stranger with no questions asked. Said stranger let him use his shower and insisted that he just take anything he sees lying around the floor. Said stranger also went to bed without asking Mike anything about who he was, where he came from or what he was doing. Truthfully, Mike had no idea what he was going to do next, but he knew he couldn’t stay. He figured Micky would inadvertently wake him up in the morning, so he would just leave with him when he went to work. Yeah, that was a good plan. Completely, totally foolproof. Mike would worry about all of his troubles in the morning. He glanced at his watch: 11:54 p.m. A good five hours of sleep to accompany his eight hour nap from earlier? Mike couldn’t complain; not when he was on a couch, with a pillow and under a blanket, instead of on the ground, with a pile of grass under a tree. For one night only, he would allow himself to be thoughtless; to simply enjoy where he was. He didn’t know Micky and probably never would, but he’d always be grateful for this brief moment of bliss he allowed Mike to have.

In the morning, though, it’d all be back to square one.

  
  


It was 2 in the afternoon.

Micky was, surprisingly, holding his own at the store. It wasn’t as hectic as his mind had imagined it: he had pictured a flood of people rushing in, demanding things of him he either couldn't or didn’t know how to do. He imagined hundreds of screaming people piling around the counter, demanding to see who was in charge and not believing Micky when he said it was him. Instead, it was the usual flow. The regulars came in early in the morning (no homeless boys this time), perusing the collection of 40s records and casually complaining to Micky about how “music these days just isn’t the same” in the hopes that they could convince him. Micky, the ever-sweet Micky, simply laughed and played along. 

Since it was the summer, teens would start to come in around 11 a.m., either local garage band kids or a bunch of middle schoolers who wanted to play with the keyboards. Al always told the kids to knock it off, but Micky found it entertaining. Some of the kids weren’t half-bad.

“Do you play anything, Mister?” one of the boys, probably 13, asked.

Micky nodded. “Oh, yeah. You can’t work in a music store and _not_ know how to play something.”

“Well, c’mon then! Show us something!”

Micky laughed. “Sorry, bud, I play the drums. Last time I tried to play them during store hours, I got yelled at.”

He would goof around with the kids while he waited for actual paying customers to come in. Around 2, though, he noticed the crowd was dying down. After ringing up a customer with a pile of records, he grabbed his keys and taped a hand-written “lunch break. Back in 40” sign on. Al told Micky he could take as long as he needed with lunch, but Micky didn’t want to push it. He’d just go to his place, make a quick sandwich and come back. He hadn’t wanted to disturb Mike in the morning, so he didn’t bother packing a lunch to take with him.

On his walk back, he found his mind wandering to Mike. Micky knew it was generally a terrible idea to talk so extensively with strangers, much less invite them into your home, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about Mike that drew Micky in. It was almost like Mike was a puzzle Micky had been tasked with solving. Mike’s exterior was hard as a rock, but Micky was determined to crack it. He knew there was something more to this mysterious boy with a southern accent. And, if nothing else, he had heard the way he played guitar, and he was downright obsessed. Micky knew how to play, kind of, but he was no good with the complex stuff. Finger picking was out of the question. Barre chords were tough enough as they were. But Mike played like the guitar was an extension of his body. Micky had never seen anything like it, and he’d been working at that music store for a while. He’d seen all types of guitarists come through. None of them were like Mike.

But Mike didn’t want to stay. Micky could tell. He tried his best to make him comfortable, but Mike was shy. He was quiet. He felt like an intruder. In a way, he was, but not to Micky. Micky was enamored with him. He was probably long gone now, though. He only hoped that he’d get to see Mike around town more often. Maybe even grab a coffee with him.

Micky found himself softly singing a tune as he climbed up the stairs to his apartment. He never really sang words, but he was always coming up with new melodies. He usually wrote nonsense just so he could practice his vocal range. It was enough for him.

He was singing louder as he approached his apartment, confident that none of his neighbors were home for him to disturb. He turned the keys and stepped inside, not even bothering to flick on the kitchen light. He knew where everything was. When he closed the door, he burst into song, screaming out nonsense words but to a beautiful tune of his own creation. As he grabbed bread and peanut butter from the ice box, he realized he should probably toss the pillows and blanket Mike had used into the laundry basket before the smell stained the cushions. He turned around to the couch and nearly screamed.

Mike was still there.

When Mike began to stir, it was because a beautiful, almost angelic, voice had pierced his dream. He didn’t even realize he was dreaming until that voice broke through. It was almost too good to be true. Nothing particularly interesting or important was happening in the dream, but it meant that he was sleeping well. The voice grew louder, though, and the _slam_ of a door took Mike from his mind and back into the real world. 

He groaned, blinking rapidly and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Then, he saw Micky, staring at him like he had three heads.

“Holy sh-- I’m so sorry-- I didn’t-- I didn’t think you’d still be here! Ohmygosh, Iwouldn’thavebeensingingsoloudifIhadknownyouwerehere.”

Mike rubbed his eyes, trying to think if Micky had slipped into an alien dialect for a moment. Wait, why would he think Mike wouldn’t be here? Did he seriously think Mike was going to escape at 4 in the morning? 

That’s when Mike realized something was off. It was too light to be 6 a.m. Sure, the shades were still drawn and not a lot of light reached his place anyway, but the sun was definitely up. Micky was fully dressed in his work attire, and his hair wasn’t wet from a shower. In fact, he had his jacket on snugly, as if he had been wearing it for a while. Almost scared to do so, Mike looked down at his watch.

He could have fainted.

14 hours. He had been asleep for _14 hours_. He had slept through Micky waking up. He had slept through the sun rising. He had slept past noon. And he would have probably kept sleeping if Micky hadn’t been singing--

Micky. Singing. That was _him_ , with the beautiful voice. The voice like an angel. Mike had never heard anything like it. He never wanted to stop hearing it.

His mind quickly pivoted, though, when he locked eyes with Micky. He looked a little freaked out to find Mike still on his couch, and Mike was suddenly overridden with embarrassment. This is _exactly_ what he wanted to avoid. He had just crashed on a stranger’s couch and was _still asleep_ when he came home for his god damn lunch break. Mike would rather be caught naked in the middle of the park than be sitting in Micky’s living room at that very moment.

“You’ve been sleeping this whole time?” Micky asked, trying to break the tension. Mike looked mortified. “I-I’m not mad or anything!” Micky quickly said. “I’m--I’m actually kind of _relieved_ you’re still here. Kinda thought I’d never see you again, or-or I had scared you away. I’m just… surprised, is all. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Mike’s mouth might as well have been sewn shut. His brain couldn’t even form sentences right now. Micky’s face suddenly became very red, and he twirled back around on his heels and finished throwing together a sandwich. _Oh, God, I screwed up. I made him feel bad and now he doesn’t want to be here. Not like he ever wanted to be here, but now he REALLY doesn’t wanna be here. Way to go, Micky. You and your stupid big mouth. Couldn’t stop singing for five minutes, huh?_

Micky dropped the knife he was using with a clatter, making Mike jump. He could see Micky running a hand through his frantic hair, his hand rapidly tapping the counter as he let the knife sit on the floor. Micky took a breath before picking up the knife and reaching back into the ice box, pulling out the sandwich ingredients again. Mike was confused. Was he making a new sandwich because he dropped the knife?

The answer to that was, of course, no. Micky rinsed the knife, built a new sandwich and walked straight up to Mike, who was now sitting up.

“Here,” he said, practically shoving the sandwich in his face. Mike looked at it for a moment before gingerly taking it. “It’s an apology sandwich.”

Mike sniffed a laugh. “...for what?”

Micky visibly perked at Mike speaking. He sighed and sat next to him on the couch.

“For making you uncomfortable.”

Mike looked at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry, man. This is super weird, I know. But I-- I just wanted to-- I wanted to help,” Micky said, feigning confidence. “I mean, you couldn’t even afford guitar strings! I thought I’d be doing something good; letting you stay here. But I’ve just gone ahead and made you feel all weird. I’m sorry.”

Mike blinked, his stomach suddenly filled with sadness. Had he really been so distant that he came across as ungrateful? He certainly hoped not. He was weirded out, yeah, but something about Micky made it okay. He just never wanted to take advantage of Micky’s resources.

“I understand if you never wanna see me again,” he said, getting up. “If you wanna, I dunno, file a restraining order or something. Or leave town. I’ve got some bucks I can give you for a cab.”

Mike wanted so badly to say something, but he didn’t know what he could possibly say. 

“I gotta go back to the store,” Micky said, getting up. “I’ve been gone for too long. Customers’ll be lining up to get in the door.”

Mike took a deep breath, hoping it would wash out the butterflies in his stomach. He pressed his palm down on his knee to get it to stop bouncing. Guilt was coursing through his veins faster than his own blood, which overwhelmed Mike to the breaking point. He hated guilt. It was easily the worst emotion of them all. He supposed what he was about to say was his way of alleviating this horrible feeling so he would never have to feel it again. 

“I’ll go with you.”

Micky whipped around. “Wh-what?”

“It ain’t like you got anyone else to help you in that store.”

Micky rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming? Or was Mike _talking_ to him? And, _man_ , did he really have an accent.

“You… you want to help?”

Mike nodded, feeling like he was going to burst if Micky asked him one more question.

“That’s… that’s real groovy of you, Mike,” Micky started. “But, you’re still wearing my dirty sweatpants.”

Mike looked down. He had completely forgotten about that. He smirked at the thought of him leaving with them still on and not even noticing. 

“Sooooo, you can either come into the store and scare all my customers away, or you can wear another pair of my things?” Micky said mischievously. It was almost like… he was planning for this to happen.

Mike opened his mouth to protest, but stopped. He really did have no choice. He had already made the offer, and at this point, he couldn’t take it back. He didn’t even know _why_ he offered to help. He wanted so badly to leave and never have Micky bother him again. But… he also didn’t. He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t understand it. And all he’s had for months are his thoughts; his jumbled, swirling thoughts that rarely had any sort of logic to them. The kind of thoughts that prompted him to help Micky were the same kind of thoughts that prompted him to hop on a train from Texas to California. It was the spontaneous side he usually suppressed, but when it was able to leak through, it had big consequences. 

“I’m going to start taking these long, introspective silences as yesses,” Micky smiled, waiting a moment to see if Mike would protest. He didn’t. Micky bolted to his room, almost comically throwing clothes from his dresser drawers and onto the bed behind him. He eventually emerged with a similar pair of khaki pants and a collared shirt, though this one was long-sleeved. 

“This is the only clean work shirt I have,” he said, tugging at his own, “so you’ll have to wear this. It’s gonna be a scorcher today, but I suspect it’s not gonna bother you too much, considering you wear that wool hat all the time.” Micky pointed to the hat resting on the table, which Mike promptly snatched up and placed on his head. Micky smirked and handed Mike the clothes. “I like it. It’s unique,” he said with a smile as Mike headed toward the bathroom. He looked back at Micky for a moment before turning back to get changed. 

Micky’s pants were a little too short, but the waist was about the same. Mike knew if he wasn’t literally starved, he probably couldn’t squeeze into these. But he didn’t want to dwell on that too much. The shirt fit well enough. His ankles awkwardly showing, Mike stepped back to the living room, glad that his boots would probably cover up the gap between the bottom of the pants and his feet. 

“I’m a little surprised those fit,” Micky laughed, a hint of sarcasm to his voice. Mike ignored him as he slipped his boots over his sockless feet. That was gonna stink at the end of the day. “C’mon, it’s almost 2:30 now. If I’m not back by 3, my boss’ll… well, I guess _I’ll_ kill me. Come on! Let’s go!” Micky grabbed Mike’s arm again, and this time he was met with a rough shake from the Texan. Micky didn’t seem to notice or care, though, since he just ran to the door and held it open for Mike, who was getting used to silently slipping past Micky. With a turn of the key, Micky practically ran down the hall, surprisingly not saying a word. 

Mike sighed, but picked up his feet and moved at a steady jogging pace. He really had no idea what he had just gotten himself into. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> isn’t it great that these two have only known each other for less than a day and they’re already getting into shenanigans!


	3. Hangin' 'round

Micky was rushing to the store so fast that Mike didn’t even get to enjoy his sandwich. He had practically shoved it down his throat as he waded through the streets, trying to keep up. The act of running was foreign to him as it was, and Micky’s tight pants were not doing him any favors. Micky noticed, though, that his fast-walking pace was leaving Mike in the dust, so he dialed it back a bit. 

“Sorry,” he said between breaths as Mike caught up. “But it’s been over an hour now! I’ve been gone for too long. If Al were here, he’d kill me, I know it. Oh man. Oh, man, what have I  _ done _ ? I bet hundreds of people have walked by that store and saw the sign. ‘40 minute breaks, huh? Al’s really losing his touch.’ And now they’ll never shop there again and he’ll have to close the store and it’ll be all my fault--”

Micky stopped himself when he saw the look Mike was giving him. Inside, Mike wanted to cock his arm back and smack Micky’s face in the hopes that it’d bring some sense to him. Outside, though, Mike was giving him a burning glare, his mouth twitching in a way that said  _ please, for the love of god, shut up _ and his eyes glowing in a way that said  _ why are you worrying? You don’t need to worry.  _ Mike couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or concerned. Was it possible to feel both so strongly at the same time?

By now, the two had stopped walking. They were simply staring at each other, Micky looking frazzled and Mike looking… well, like Mike. Neither knew how to read the other. Micky was trying his best not to say anything, or else he’d go off again.

After an uncomfortable few seconds, Mike cleared his throat. “It’s fine,” he said suddenly, instantly turning around and walking in the direction of the music store. Micky stood there for another surprised second, wondering what exactly Mike meant by that and why it comforted him so much to hear him say it.  _ He’s right _ , Micky thought.  _ Of course it’s fine. I’m overreacting. _ Unsure of how those two monotone words were able to bring him back down to earth, he jumped forward to catch up with Mike, who was walking silently at a normal pace. Micky unconsciously matched his action.

“See,” he heard Mike mutter when they reached the storefront. A few passersby glanced at the sign, but none had the intention of entering the store. “Nobody’s here.”

Micky reached into his jacket and pulled out the store keys, which promptly fell right out of his hand and clattered on the ground. He laughed nervously as he picked them up and shuffled through the key ring, only to drop the keys a  _ second _ time. He aggressively snatched them up, carefully locating the key for the front door and finally unlocking it. Cheeks burning, he walked briskly to the front counter and turned the lights on while Mike peeled his handwritten sign off the door. He took a long look at the note, scanning over Micky’s surprisingly nice handwriting until his eyes caught the Gretsch again. Mike found himself relieved to see that nobody had come in and bought it, even though he knew he had to work a lifetime to even afford to look at it.

Over at the counter, Micky’s mind was racing. Having mini breakdowns and freakout sessions was a central part of his personality that anyone who knew him was aware of. It rarely made him self-conscious, since just about everyone in his life was kind and worked with him through his irrational bouts of anxiety. But something about the way Mike looked at him had thrown him off. He almost looked… _angry_. Nobody had ever gotten angry at Micky like that before. _But he wasn’t even angry. Why would he be angry? Why would he be here if he found you annoying?_ _Why am I feeling like this?_

He was thankful when the bell jingled and a customer walked in, a young woman who was clearly just here to peruse the records. Normally, when someone was looking through the collection, Micky hardly bothered them. This time, though, he ran over to her and struck up a conversation, going into full retail mode to distract himself from his thoughts. Mike, of course, watched this all unfold from a comfortable distance. After some meaningless back-and-forth, Micky rung her up and watched in almost-horror as she exited the store, leaving the two of them alone again. 

Micky coughed such a fake cough that it made him cringe. “So,” he said immediately. “This is the store. Well, I guess you knew that already, huh.” His eyes, looking uncharacteristically lost, suddenly lit up. “Why don’t I show you the back room!” he said excitedly, and Mike wordlessly met him behind the counter, feeling queasy about standing where the employees stand. By now, Micky’s normal energy had returned as he pointed out all the things in storage like a little kid. “These are the spare parts,” he said, pointing to a bunch of screws and wires and drumsticks and packs of strings. Mike gently put his guitar down and took a look. “Al yells at me when he catches me messing with them. Don’t tell him,” Micky said playfully, leaning in, “but once a week I take something home with me. He never notices. OH! These are the records!” he practically leaped over to a floor-to-wall shelf that was stuffed with vinyls. “We have a whole row just for the Beatles.” Suddenly, Micky threw his arm around Mike, making him tense up. “Look up there, Mike. Do you see those?” he pointed to the top shelf. Mike, hoping he could scrunch up so tightly he would slip from Micky’s grip, didn’t respond. “Those, my dear friend, are  _ new releases _ . Which means  _ nobody has heard them yet _ . But Al keeps them on the top shelf so I can’t reach them, and he hid the stepladder.” 

Mike snorted, prompting Micky to look at him and smile. “I’m not kidding, man. He really did that.”

After they had gone through the room of spares, as Micky liked to call it, they approached a door. 

“Get ready,” Micky said, practically bouncing in his shoes. “Welcome to the holy grail.”

He swung the door open, revealing a long room stocked to the nines with instruments of all kinds. Mike found himself getting excited when his eyes immediately fell upon the wall of guitars.

Micky caught Mike’s glance and smiled. “Oh, yeah, this is totally your bag, isn’t it? People are always coming in to buy acoustics, so we have a ton of them,” he said, leading them directly to the guitar wall. For the first time in his life, Mike was confident he knew what heaven looked like. Almost subconsciously, Mike began to reach for a deep red Gibson before Micky lightly put his hand on his shoulder.

“I wish,” he said sadly. “But I’m not--  _ we’re _ not allowed. Only Al handles the instruments.” Mike gave Micky a questioning look. “It was some thing, years ago, I dunno. I’ve only been here for about a year and a half. When Peter used to work here, he wasn’t allowed to touch them either, unless Al said he could.” Micky paused for a moment. “Peter was this guy I worked with. Real sweet kid, but he was… missing a little up here, you know?” he pointed to his head. “Real sweet, though. He knew a ton about every single instrument in here, that’s why Al hired him. He just disappeared a few weeks ago, though. Completely stopped coming into work. Al thinks he died or something, but I haven’t seen anything in the papers about it. He was kind of a hippie, though, so that’s probably why he took off.” Mike could  _ feel _ the exasperation in Micky’s voice. “For whatever reason, Al hasn’t looked to hire anyone to replace him. He must really like me, I dunno, but I’ve been working double for two weeks now. It’s fine, I guess, ‘cause I make double money. I almost have enough to get a car. But I can’t practice my drums anymore, since I work weekends and get home too late.”

“Drums?” Mike asked before he could stop himself. He knew Micky could sing and with him working in a music store, it was obvious that music was more than a hobby. But Micky playing the  _ drums _ ? He was such a showman. Mike couldn’t imagine him sitting still behind a drum kit on the back of a stage. He couldn’t really picture Micky playing any instrument at all, really.

Micky nodded. “Fitting, right? Gotta play something that’s as loud as me.” Micky didn’t say that with his usual cheery demeanor. “I’ve got the kit shoved in the hallway closet. I practice rhythms on the couch, but that’s about it.” He looked to Mike, his eyes wide like a lost puppy. Mike felt that tug in his stomach again.

“Oh, jeez, I almost forgot. I have to organize the new shipments that came in yesterday afternoon.” He jerked his head to another door. “Can you stand watch out there while I do this?”

Mike was frozen. Stand watch? Out there? Alone? Was Micky crazy? What made him think Mike was willing to do that?  _ Probably because you offered to help him, idiot _ . Mike sighed, but nothing about his demeanor was telling Micky no. 

“Thanks, man,” he said, clapping his shoulder and quickly disappearing through the other door.

Now Mike was  _ really _ alone.

_ This was a bad idea. Real, real stupid idea. God, I hope nobody walks through that door.  _ Mike’s thoughts rang loud and clear through his head as he stiffly walked back to the store. His tattered boots felt like lead weights tied around his ankles as he stood in the threshold between the back counter and the back room. What on earth was he going to do if someone walked in and saw him? Mike didn’t even get a chance to look in the mirror before he left, so for all he knew, his face was still dirty and his beard still made him look homeless. He  _ was _ still homeless. And yet…

“Hello? Is anyone here?”

Mike went still. Someone  _ was  _ here. And they obviously needed help. But Mike didn’t know  _ how _ to help. He wasn’t even a paid employee. He was hoping that when he offered to help Micky, he would be restocking or organizing shelves or something; a.k.a, doing  _ exactly  _ what Micky was doing right now. Something in the back where he could be left alone. Why on earth Micky didn’t pick up on this, Mike would never know. There was a reason Mike had never bothered looking for a retail job to help pay the bills. He wasn’t like Micky. He couldn’t strike up conversation with people with as much confidence or as much joy as Micky seemed to. Mike was content being alone and doing things his own way. In retail, it was  _ always _ about the customer, and Mike just couldn’t get with that. It wasn’t like he  _ couldn’t _ talk to people, he just didn’t really want to.

But right now, in this moment, it felt impossible. He had been homeless for months. The only conversations he’d had were with other homeless people, and even those were scarce. It almost felt like he had forgotten how to interact. 

“Hello?” the voice called out again. Mike squeezed his eyes shut as he collected his thoughts. There was no getting out of this now. If he went to the back to get Micky, the customer would probably be long gone. Plus, he didn’t really  _ want _ to talk to Micky, not right now. Something about him was off, and Mike found that he didn’t really like it when Micky was sulking.

So, he was left with no choice. Taking a breath, he took two steps forward.

“Oh! Hello!”

One step back.

“I, uh, I was wondering if you could help me pick out a guitar,” said the customer -- a girl, probably around the same age as Mike, with wavy blond hair and ocean blue eyes. “My brother’s birthday is tomorrow and I still need to get him something.”

Mike breathed a small sigh of relief. At least he could be useful.

“Uhm… I don’t really know much about guitars,” she said, confused as to why the only employee in the store was standing behind the counter like a deer in headlights. “What would you get for someone who’s just starting out?”

_ You need to speak to answer her question, Mike _ . Mike cleared his throat and slowly made his way over to where she was standing, stopping in front of the guitar display and fiddling with his hands.

“Well, uh.” Mike had never really explained this stuff to other people before. He gave a rough cough before continuing. “How-how old is he?”

“He’s 18,” she said, stepping closer to Mike. “He’s going off to college and wants to impress everybody by playing the guitar. ‘Course, he’s never touched one in his life,” she laughed. “He’s a little nervous about school, you know? He doesn’t think he’s gonna get along well with everyone, so he’s really been hung up lately. He thinks a guitar can help, I dunno, break some tension. It’s a little silly, I think, but I want to help.” She looked at Mike expectantly, but he just stood there, twiddling his thumbs and taking in that information.  _ He thinks a guitar can help _ .

“...so can you help me?” she asked, softly and sweetly. 

“Oh, uh.” Mike turned to the guitars, studying the collection. He hadn’t really gotten a good look at what they had, but it was a decent selection. He could work with this.

“H-how much are you…” he started, but stopped himself after thinking it might be too insensitive to ask. Luckily, he spoke too softly for the girl to hear. She was already engrossed in the display in front of her.

“How about this one?” she asked, pointing to a black-and-white Fender Jazzmaster. “It looks groovy.”

Mike shook his head with a little smile. “Too fancy,” he said, working up the courage to walk up next to her. “Here.” Taking advantage of his height, he reached above her head to pull down a plain acoustic Fender. “Same brand. See?” he pointed to the name scribbled across the top of the headstock, and she nodded. “Good for beginners.”

She smiled, taking the guitar from Mike and twisting it around to look at it.

“Do you play?” she asked suddenly. Mike stood for a moment before finding his words.

“Yeah,” he said, bashfully looking at the ground.

She smiled. “Good. I wouldn’t want to take advice from someone who’s never played before.”

Mike almost missed the way his heart fluttered at her words.

“So this is a good one?” she asked. “Sorry, I just want to make sure.”

Mike realized he must have had a look on his face that made her feel like she needed to apologize. He quickly nodded, his face now burning red. They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds before Mike remembered he was pretending to be an employee. He did a little jump step as he made his way behind the counter.

“This thing comes with a case or something, doesn’t it?” the girl asked, cradling the body like a baby. 

Mike’s face fell, completely ignoring the weird way she was holding the instrument. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah! Of course! I’ll…”  _ I’ll go get you one _ , he said in his head. But he didn’t know  _ where _ he could get her one. And, oh  _ shit _ , he had to ring her up on the register, too, and he had no idea how it worked. Wait. The register. He didn’t even know how much this  _ cost! _

Panic increasing, he ducked his head and dashed into the back room. He didn’t even care that he left this poor girl hanging. He needed to find Micky.

Mike burst into the room of instruments, but he was nowhere to be found. He could feel the panic consuming his entire body, almost rendering his ability to walk useless. He managed to stagger over to the door Micky had disappeared through earlier.

He pounded on the door with a shaking fist. “MICKY!”

Almost immediately, the door swung open. There stood Micky, sweat shimmering on his forehead, eyes wide. 

“What? What’s wrong?!” he asked, absorbing Mike’s panic. Mike glanced nervously to the door behind him, and Micky instantly knew what was wrong. He rushed past Mike and screeched to a halt at the counter.

“Hi!” he smiled. “What do you… oh. You’ve got something?”

The girl, taking a look at Micky’s wild hair, giggled. “Yeah. The guy with the beard helped me,” she said, peering around Micky to look at the back room. “Where did he go?”

“Oh, Mike? He, uh. Bathroom break,” he stumbled. 

“Oh. Well, tell him thank you. He was very helpful.”

Micky smiled as he punched the price in the register. “Was he?”

The girl nodded. “Oh, yeah. This is the third store I’ve been to, you know, but none of the guys who helped me actually play guitar. And nobody even asked me how old my brother was. They just berated me with useless information I didn’t need just to sell me something.”

Micky wasn’t sure why her brother’s age mattered, but he kept smiling nonetheless. “Well, I’m real glad he could help you out. It’s $20 -- I can grab that for you.”

The girl handed Micky the guitar as she fished through her purse for the money. Micky ducked below the counter and pulled out a long drawer that was stuffed with soft cases. He pulled one out and wrapped up the guitar.

“Thank you so much!” she said cheerfully as she handed over the money. “Gosh, I’ll have to come back here sometime. What a wonderful store.”

“Well, we sure hope to see you around soon!” Micky called out as she walked to the door. She gave one last wave before disappearing.

At the sound of the jingling bell, Mike poked his head out from the back room. His heart still felt like it was about to beat out of his chest, but at least he regained the ability to walk normally. His nerves picked up upon making eye contact with Micky.  _ Man, this is embarrassing. _

“Man, you’re a natural!” Micky beamed. “Didja hear all those compliments she was giving you?”

Mike shook his head.

“Oh, man. She kept saying how helpful you were and how you actually knew what you were talking about. What did you say to her, anyway?”

Mike shrugged. That wasn’t even him being shy -- he really didn’t know what he said.

“Well, whatever you said, it worked wonders.”

A feeling was rising in Mike’s stomach that he didn’t recognize. He winced for a moment, silently praying that this feeling would go away so he could try to make it through the rest of the day. After a moment, though, he realized something was different about this feeling. Normally, these kinds of sudden feelings would make his stomach clench or his hands go clammy. They always felt like another burden he had to bear; sometimes he could feel those feelings like they were an added weight on his back. But this… no, this wasn’t like any of those. It was light and airy. It almost made him feel like he could leap off the ground and start flying. This… Mike didn’t know what exactly this was. But it was good.

“You okay?” Micky asked, noticing the weird look that crossed Mike’s face. Mike cleared and nodded. Micky noticed that something was different about the look in his eyes. They almost seemed to glow, and Micky smiled. He knew why.

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful. Mike didn’t end up talking to another customer, mainly because nobody else needed to buy a brand new instrument. In the two weeks since Micky had been at the store alone, only a few people had come to actually get a new instrument; most people just needed things repaired. Al still wouldn’t let Micky do any repairs, which frustrated him to no end. Micky was good at fixing stuff, but something about him just never made Al comfortable leaving someone else’s property in his care. Micky could venture a guess as to why.

Mike, meanwhile, didn’t really have to do too much. He had gone into the back room with the intention of organizing things, but he was surprised to find that most things were pretty much exactly where they needed to be. With some newfound time, he got to fixing his guitar. Once the new string was snugly in place, he tuned it up and began to softly pluck a melody before stopping. He didn’t want Micky to hear him, so after a lot of mental back-and-forth, he made the decision to put his guitar back in the case and spend his time doing other things. He ended up looking at the records for a while, making mental notes of which ones he would buy once he got some money. His mind had slowly been drifting into fantasyland throughout his time in the back room, and now he was imagining his pockets were so stuffed with money that he didn’t know what to do with it. First, he’d get that Gretsch. Then, he’d buy up the entire shelf of Beatles albums they had sitting back here. He’d play each record and play the parts on those 12 beautiful strings. He’d record himself singing and create harmonies, because he’d be in his own personal recording studio in a house by the beach. He couldn’t think of anything else that would make him happier.

Mike didn’t realize how much time he had actually spent in the back room, but he didn’t think it was almost four hours. But, there was Micky, walking in with a burnt-out look. His eyes immediately went to Mike, who was sitting on the ground with his back leaning against the record shelf. He was reading the track list on a Beatles album.

Mike looked up when Micky walked in, waiting for him to ask Mike what he was doing or to tell him a funny story about the time Al caught him lounging around. But instead, he walked over to the shelf where the scrap parts lay. He sifted his hand through the miscellaneous things, seeming unsatisfied with everything he was picking up. His hand was clenching his hair so hard Mike thought it would burst into flames. He swear he started to see smoke when Micky’s head finally fell. After a few seconds, he lazily grabbed the first thing he saw and trudged back to the main room.

“’M closing up,” he said suddenly. “It’s almost 9.”

What? Almost 9? Mike really wished this room had windows. He rubbed his eyes, his internal clock telling him it was actually 2 in the afternoon.  _ Damn it, Mike, that’s when you woke up.  _ Sleep was going to be difficult tonight.

Mike silently watched Micky slink around the store with noticeably less energy than the night before. In fact, the difference between the Micky from 24 hours ago and the Micky now was so staggering that Mike actually felt pity. Managing the store on his own was clearly a stressful task. He glanced over to the counter when something caught his eye.

“You ready?” Micky asked, mindlessly brushing some dust off a book of sheet music. Mike nodded.

“There it is. The Mike Nod,” Micky said morosely. Mike frowned, expecting Micky to berate him with a million “Sorry!”s. He never did.

Micky flicked the lights off and dragged his feet outside, locking the door with a sigh. Without saying a word, he started back home. For reasons Mike would have to ruminate over later, he followed him.

Micky looked over, a little surprised to see Mike walking with him.

“It’s not fair,” Micky muttered after a few moments. He quickly rubbed his eye. “It’s just not fair.”

Mike raised his eyebrow, hoping his stare was enough to get Micky to keep talking. 

“I’ve been working at that store since February of last year. That’s… 18 months,” he said, counting on his hand. “18 months I’ve been there, and I’ve never missed a day. Not once. And it feels… no, ugh, it’s so stupid.” 

Mike had never seen Micky act like this. Granted, it had only been 24 hours, so maybe this was normal for him. Something, though, told Mike it wasn’t.

_ It’s okay, just talk _ , Mike thought. But he wasn’t equipped to be dishing out life advice right now, so he kept quiet.

“It feels like he doesn’t trust me.”

Mike looked at him in surprise.  _ But he left you in charge of the store! _

“Sure, he left me in charge of the store,” Micky said. “But… no matter how many times I tell him I can be doing more, he doesn’t seem to care. I build stuff in my free time. I like to invent things. Stupid little things, sure, but I like it and it’s fun. I can fix the instruments if he showed me how. That stuff comes real natural to me.” He paused, quietly sniffling before continuing. “He won’t even let me touch them. Peter started in May and Al had him fixing things in a few weeks.”

_ Maybe Peter’s done that stuff before. _

“Maybe he’s done it before, I dunno.” Mike blinked, now thoroughly convinced Micky could read his mind. “I think Al thinks I’m crazy. Not like, mental. But… maybe off-the-walls. He thinks I’m careless.”

_ That ain’t true. You seem genuine. _

“Maybe he’s right, too,” Micky sighed, shoving his hands into his pant pockets. “I am a little obnoxious. Right?” He turned to Mike, somehow hoping he would validate his thoughts. Mike just gave him a confused look.

“God, of course you wouldn’t say anything,” Micky said harshly, throwing his hands up. Mike felt his stomach sink. Suddenly, his face turned very red and he stopped walking. 

“Oh, sh—Mike, I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—gah, I didn’t mean that. I’m just really upset right now. I’m sorry.”

Mike, though, just stared at Micky blankly. Mostly, Mike was offended. Why did Micky have this crazy expectation that Mike would just start talking and integrating himself into Micky’s life like it was nothing? He had absolutely no idea who he was. He couldn’t form an opinion on how obnoxious he was because he barely knew him. They were total strangers who just happened to bump into each other. There was no relationship there, but Micky seemed to expect things of Mike that suggested he thought they were friends. They weren’t friends. At all.

Micky felt his annoyance quickly transform into a sickening feeling of fear. “Mike, please, I—" he started, but it was too late. Mike had already started to walk away.

Micky was alone now. How had that gone south so quickly? He knew the answer, of course. He couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Ever. He had barely known Mike for 24 hours and he somehow thought it was a good idea to confide in him. But Micky didn’t want to feel stupid for that. He really needed to talk to someone about the way he was feeling. Talking always made him feel better, even if it didn’t make a situation better. This time, though, he knew how much he messed up. He liked Mike. He was so wildly different than Micky that it almost felt like a natural pairing. He  _ wanted  _ Mike to like him. He wanted to know what he was thinking; what he thought about Micky’s apartment. Micky’s job. Micky’s jokes. He wanted to know what Mike liked. He always looked so on edge, so scared. Micky just wanted him to be comfortable. He watched as Mike’s figure faded out of view, standing there for an extra few moments just in case he decided to turn around. He didn’t.

Micky sighed, allowing a few tears to fall from his eyes as he made his way back home. Something was screaming in the back of his head: MICKY! MICKY! MICKY! It took him a few seconds to realize the source: Mike. He had glossed over it before, but when Mike went looking for him earlier while he was restocking, he had called his name. He  _ said his name _ . He of so few words had decided that he would choose “Micky” as the next thing he said out loud. Micky used people’s names like it was an unlimited resource, but he still thought it was special every time. Names were personal. They were an identity. Micky had latched onto the fact that his and Mike’s name were the same—well, basically the same. He thought it was a sign. Mike had used his name when he was in distress. He used it because he needed Micky to help him. And now, he was gone without so much as a goodbye, or a thank you. Micky sighed to himself. He figured he deserved it. As he approached his building, he reached into his pocket for his keys. They were empty. He patted his other pocket and his back pockets. Nothing. He dug his hands into his jacket again.  _ Nothing _ .

Micky had left his keys at the store.

  
  


The park was bustling with people, but Mike didn’t see any of them. He had tunnel vision, and there was a tube of light leading him straight to the tree he spent many nights underneath. He sat down, tucking his legs in and resting his forehead on his knees. He didn’t hear the voices of people around him. He only heard his thoughts; his angry thoughts. He was seething, but between the spot he took off and the tree, the subject of his anger had changed. He couldn’t believe he allowed himself to hang around Micky for as long as he did. He should have just left once he woke up, but his half-baked brain told him it was a good idea to accompany him. He felt guilty for being quiet. It clearly upset Micky, but it wasn’t like he had said more than five words to him since leaving his place that afternoon. But Mike felt like he had to help him out. It was like some kind of instinct that took him by so much surprise that he couldn’t even process it until now.

Once again, he had let his guard down and gotten burned for it. He had allowed himself to feel good about something, and it wasn’t until now that he realized the source of that feeling was Micky. Micky had made him happy by complimenting him, even though he wasn’t actually the one who had said those nice words. It was that girl. But Micky acknowledged it, somehow making it real instead of some stupid thought in Mike’s head. If Al the store owner had said the exact same words to Mike, it wouldn’t mean a thing.

So why did he get so offended when Micky snapped at him? He wasn’t wrong. Mike didn’t ever talk to him, but it was because he  _ couldn’t _ . He felt like every time he spoke, he would be scrutinized and judged for every word he said. He felt like his words were unwelcome, even more so than his own presence. 

Mike groaned. He couldn’t believe how hung up he was on this boy. He was just another person. They were strangers. No connection. No meaning. Just two people existing in the same space. But maybe Mike didn’t  _ want  _ to exist in this space. Maybe California really wasn’t for him. He didn’t belong in a place like this; Micky did. This was Micky’s space. He wasn’t certain, but he was sure that Micky wasn’t a transplant like he was. He felt bad that he had to storm out on Micky, but he had to do it. He couldn’t keep invading. He missed Texas. He missed the prairies and the plains and the wildlife. He missed the sunsets that would engulf the entire sky. He missed seeing the sky never end. Everyone in LA was too uptight and too preoccupied with themselves. He wanted to go back. He  _ needed  _ to go back. 

Right then and there, Mike decided he would catch the next train to Texas once the sun rose again. He didn’t care if he had to sneak on or steal a ticket. He had to just accept his failure, go back and try something new.

“Guess I’m doin’ this,” Mike sighed, slumping down the base of the tree. This would be his last night sleeping in a public park; he better appreciate the hell out of it. After a few moments of lying down, though he uncomfortably shifted around and grunted once he realized he was still wearing Micky’s stupid pants. Something sharp was poking through the pocket, too.  _ Well, he said I could take anything, right? _ Mike closed his eyes, visions of brilliant orange and pink hues filling his dream. Soon, he would be back in Texas with his guitar—

_ Ow! Shit, what is--?  _ The object in his pocket nearly jabbed him in the stomach as he rolled over. His stomach sank, though, when he remembered what was in there. He shoved his hand into the pocket, yanking its contents free. When Mike’s suspicions were confirmed, he nearly burst into laughter. This wouldn’t be as easy as he thought. 

Micky was in so much distress he didn’t even see the figure approach him. He was slumped on his front steps, furiously wiping his eyes and trying not to make any noise. He just wanted to disappear. No matter how many times he tried to help, he would just get turned away. Maybe he wasn’t as useful as he thought.

It wasn’t until he heard someone clear their throat above him that he flinched and looked up. His jaw nearly dropped.

Mike slowly took a seat next to the curly-haired boy, not daring to make eye contact with him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, but it was different than all the other silences. This was a comfortable silence.

“Look, man,” Micky said, his voice hoarse from all the crying. “You—you don’t have to keep hangin’ around here. You don’t have to feel bad. I know you hate me, it’s alright.”

“I don’t hate you.”

Micky’s face wasn’t as surprised as it could have been, but he didn’t expect Mike to say anything, much less that. 

“You… you don’t?” he asked, hoping to get more out of him. But Mike simply said no. 

“Oh,” was all Micky could say as he pondered his next question. “Why… why did you come back?”

“Well, I’m wearin’ your clothes,” Mike said after a moment, stretching out his legs. 

Micky smirked. “Oh, yeah. You can keep those, though—”

Mike shook his head no. “They don’t fit well.”

Micky nodded miserably. Of course they didn’t fit.

“I’m sorry for dumping all that on you before,” Micky said sadly. “It’s just—it was dumb. We barely know each other. I shouldn’t expect you to care about my problems.”

Mike had never felt a tone of voice tug at his heartstrings quite like this did. That, and the fact that Micky had a superhuman ability to know everything Mike was thinking and feeling. Mike sighed, knowing that what he was about to say would permanently complicate his plans.

“Tell me.”

Micky’s eyes were a strange mix of confused and excited. Mike nodded, letting him know he indeed said those words. 

Once Micky got going, he couldn’t stop. He told Mike about how he’d been feeling this way since Peter started working with him, and that feeling of jealousy only increased as he discovered just how talented Peter was compared to him. Micky knew he had a nice voice and could play the drums, but Peter seemed to be able to master any instrument the moment he picked it up. Micky had taken that job because he hoped it would spark something inside of him, but he only grew more unsure as time went on. He was from California, but he moved out here on his own once all his high school friends left town and he was still there. He had always been a bit of a dreamer, always hopping from one idea to the next, so he knew trying to box himself in at school wouldn’t lead to anything. Entertainment was something he was passionate about, and he figured he could make something work with it if he tried hard enough. He had been living alone for almost a year and it was starting to drive him crazy, especially since he was working so much. He thought he could have made it as a singer or an actor by now. He really had no idea what to expect from the real world, but it was a lot more boring than he thought, and it was constantly dragging him down. He took Mike in not just because he was excited to have a friend, but because he felt Mike possessed all these traits that Micky didn’t, though neither of them really knew why he felt that way.

“…I dunno, man, I just really think you’re where it’s at. Even if you’re homeless,” Micky said, offering a weak smile. “There’s something about you. I wish I could say what. Sorry if that’s weird, or anything, I just. That’s how I feel.”

Mike almost couldn’t believe how similar their stories were. He could have never thought a well-off California kid could feel the same way he did, but there he was. There they were.

“…I guess probably want to change out of my skinny clothes. There’s only one problem, though. I left my keys at—”

Before Micky could finish, Mike had reached into his pocket and pulled out what had been jabbing him in the side. This time, Micky’s jaw  _ actually  _ dropped.

“MY KEYS!” he said, snatching them from Mike’s hand and jumping up. “How—why—”

“They were on the counter,” Mike shrugged. “Figured you didn’t mean to leave ‘em there. I nearly forgot about ‘em when I ran off before.”

Micky’s smile was truly ear-to-ear as he beamed at Mike, who let out a small  _ hup  _ when Micky pulled him in for a hug.

“Thank you Mike! Thank you! You just saved me an hour of sleep!”

“Okay, okay,” Mike grunted, quickly pushing Micky away.

“Sorry. I’m a hugger,” Micky grinned, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Mike mumbled to himself. 

“Come on, let’s get your clothes,” Micky said, unlocking the front door and leading them up the stairs. As soon as they got inside Micky’s place, Mike grabbed his dirty pile of clothes that he threw next to the couch. He stared at it for a few seconds. Everything Micky had told him on the steps before was playing in his head. Every single word. Mike hadn’t forgotten any of it. He didn’t realize how much he missed having company. He still wanted to catch a train in the morning, but he really,  _ really  _ didn’t want to sleep outside again. It was another hot, muggy night that was not fit for comfortable sleep.

“I… is it okay if I…” Mike took a breath, making sure he wanted to ask this. His eyes were still cast downward. “…can I stay one more night?”

Micky’s face began to light up like a crackle of lightning. “Y-yes. Yes. Yeah! Of course you can!” Mike barely even blinked and suddenly Micky was standing in front of him with a new pair of pajamas. 

“I put the ones from last night in the laundry,” he said, running over to the couch to flatten out the blanket and make it look presentable. “Shower’s through there, as you already know. I’ve gotta be at the mechanics at 8 a.m. Another early day. I’ll make sure to wake you up this time, okay?”

Mike’s cheeks flushed red at the memory, but gave Micky a nod.

“Great. Great!” He stood quietly as Mike put his guitar back down and sat on the couch. “I, uh. I want to… thanks. For listening to me before. You didn’t have to do that.”

Mike shrugged. “I wanted to.”

Micky smiled. He had a feeling Mike didn’t do  _ anything  _ unless he wanted to.

“Well, g’night, Mike,” he said, crossing the room to where he had turned the light on moments earlier. 

“G’night,” Mike mumbled, a little louder than he did the night before. Once Micky shut the door, Mike got changed in the middle of the living room and slipped right under the covers and shut his eyes, his body overcome with weariness. He would worry about a shower in the morning.

His train could wait for a few extra hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't normally like to write stuff based on song lyrics, but i realized like halfway through this chapter that that was exactly what i was doing lmao. mike aint the only one feeling like shit around here!


	4. Micky's song

This time, Mike woke up on his own accord. Since he got more sleep than he knew what to do with the night before, his body didn’t feel the need to let him experience that sweet bliss again. His internal clock promptly woke him up at 6:30 and, before he could think, he slipped into the shower to get himself ready before Micky could even wake up.

Mike took the usual five minutes instead of forty-five minutes, but he enjoyed every bit of it just as much as he did last night. He quickly toweled off and changed back into Micky’s pajamas, which were another pair of grey sweatpants and a plain tee shirt. Even though these clothes made him look arguably more homeless than he did before, he wanted nothing to do with his sweat-stained jeans and dirt-caked cardigan ever again --  _ especially _ after getting a whiff of them. He was going to be back home in a few days. He didn’t have to worry about clothing choices anymore.

_ You can’t just take Micky’s stuff. _

_ But he offered a thousand times! _

_ He’s just doing it to be nice. Why would he want a filthy stranger to take his perfectly good clothes? _

Mike clutched his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He had been having back-and-forths like that in his head for the last 24 hours and it was driving him insane.  _ Go back to Texas. But you'll be giving up on your dream! The dream’s already dead. _ He couldn’t deal with it. He hated the feeling California brought out of him -- uncertainty. He needed to be sure of something before he did it. He needed to be in control. The fact that he wasn’t even convinced he should be going home was the biggest warning sign that something about him was permanently changing. He needed to leave before it got any worse.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a sleepy voice called out from the other end of the room. Mike chuckled at how disheveled Micky looked. He wouldn’t survive 10 minutes out on the streets.

“Hi,” Mike said quietly, but Micky didn’t hear. Instead, he let out a huge yawn that just about sucked all the oxygen out of the room. “Shower,” he said groggily, shuffling past Mike and closing the bathroom door. The water squeaked on and Mike took a seat back on the couch, folding his hands on his lap. His leg bounced rapidly as the minutes went by. He was thinking of a lot and also nothing at all. He was doing this. He was going home. But that fact didn’t fill him with as much relief as he hoped it would. Anxious, he got up and took the time to snoop around Micky’s place a bit. His eyes fell across a brand-new notebook on the counter with a pen on top. Mike couldn’t overcome his curiosity and flipped it open. It was empty. Mike didn’t know why, but he felt like he  _ needed  _ this notebook. The notebook he had taken with him from Texas was filled up by now with song lyrics, various notes and phone numbers from different clubs around town. He had also used half the pages as napkins.

Micky soon emerged from the shower, looking just as tired as he did before. Mike scrambled over to his guitar and shoved the notebook inside the case before Micky could see. Micky, though, just slumped to his room closed the door without a word. He came out a minute later in a denim-colored jumpsuit and a small duffel bag in one hand.

“Mechanic’s,” he reminded Mike once he examined the look on his face. “Five-hour shift.”

Mike watched as Micky put together two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and threw them in two separate bags. He plopped one on Mike’s lap. 

“Don’t say no. Please,” Micky said with a small smile. Mike looked at Micky, then to the bag, then back up. He nodded in acknowledgment.

“Groovy,” Micky said between more yawns. He grabbed his jacket and house keys before turning back to Mike with a questioning look. Mike slowly stood up, his sinking stomach almost single-handedly holding him back.

“Look, I…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew if he told Micky what he was  _ really _ doing, Micky would get on his knees and beg him to stay. So he decided to test out a new skill, his stomach be damned.

“I’ll be back later,” he lied.

Micky’s eyes instantly lit up. “Really?”

Mike nodded. “Gonna go to a few cafe’s. Play a little.”

“Al _ right _ !” Micky cheered. The sinking feeling in Mike’s stomach only got worse when it occurred to him that Micky wasn’t actually all that tired.

“Are the sweatpants okay? I can give you some of my--”

Mike shook his head. “These fit.”

“Oh. Right,” Micky laughed. “I get off at six, so I can actually go out and eat somewhere at a normal time. Why don’t I take you to a diner near here! That way we can get you a real meal.”

Mike shrugged, which Micky took as an act of modesty.

“No, it’s fine! I’ve got a little extra cash from all this working I’ve been doing. Whadda ya say? Meet back here around 6:30?”

Mike’s stomach was at the bottom of the ocean by now. But he simply nodded, cringing at how wide Micky’s grin had gotten.

“Oh, man! This is great! I’m so glad you’ve come around! All the roommates I’ve ever had were terrible.” Micky looked sick for a moment, but quickly returned to form with a small giggle. “I’ve only known you for a day and you’re already better than them!”

All the lying in the world couldn’t displace the immense amount of guilt Mike was feeling at that very moment. His only saving grace was reminding himself that once he left town, he could quickly forget about Micky. Or at least try to.

Mike followed Micky out the door, taking in his place for the last time. He didn’t know why, but the building had suddenly shifted from grimy to cozy. It seemed to glow in the early morning light as they walked down the front steps and into the August heat.

“So 6:30?” Micky asked eagerly. Mike gave a small nod, just wanting this to be done. 

“Great! And good luck with those cafe’s! Try Chuck’s. They’re pretty partial to people like us,” Micky winked. It took Mike a moment to figure out what he meant. “See you later, Mike!”

He looked up at Micky -- his eyes were wide like saucers, and the hazel color shone so brilliantly it looked like someone had taken the golden color of the sun and mixed it with flecks of sparkle. It was like there was a whole different world inside those eyes. Anybody would be lucky to look into Micky’s eyes and see what Mike was seeing. He took a deep, heavy sigh.

“Goodbye, Micky.”

Mike didn’t head straight for the train station like he had planned. His body had overtaken his mind and he soon found himself back in the park under the familiar tree. He might as well start charging rent for anyone else who happened to walk under it when he wasn’t there.

Mike took out his guitar and admired it for a moment. Never had it looked better. He hadn’t played it since that night in the park with blue-eyes and the gang.  _ Blue-eyes and the gang _ . Mike decided that when he formed a band, that would be the name. He was certain that one day he would find someone musically inclined with that very specific eye color.

Mike began to strum, letting the music take him over. He was playing something entirely new, and he had to admit, it sounded  _ great _ . Better than anything he’d come up with since moving to LA. He reached into his case and pulled out the notebook he had stolen from Micky. He flipped to the first page and began scribbling down chord progressions and lyrics. This continued for over an hour, and Mike had the makings of at least five different songs in that book. When he tried to sing them, though, something felt  _ wrong _ . Probably just because he was talking quietly under his breath instead of actually  _ singing _ .

No matter how badly Mike wanted to keep playing, he forced himself up. It was already 9:30, and he wanted to catch a train as soon as he could. He hobbled over to the station, weaving in and out of all the LA socialites who were in a hurry to get to nowhere and do nothing. Mike was the calmest of them all, but his mission was the most urgent. He didn’t even bother checking the boards as he approached the ticket window, only to be greeted by a plump lady with pointy glasses and a sour expression.

“How may I help you?” her rough voice had probably never spoken in anything but monotone in her life.

“Uh, hi, o-one ticket to Houston.”

She raised her eyebrow at him as if he asked for a ticket to Mars. “Round-trip?”

Mike frowned. “One way.”

She coughed as she slid over in her chair, scanning the schedule.

“One ticket to Houston,” she repeated with a heavy sigh. “Train leaves at 12:30 p.m.,” she said as she pulled out a ticket. “$26.”

Mike nearly facepalmed.  _ Twenty-six dollars _ . He didn’t even have  _ one _ dollar! He had been so caught up in Micky and his music that he had forgotten he had  _ literally no money _ . It was like spending all that time with Micky made him completely forget who he really was.

“Uh… do y’have anythin’ cheaper?” Mike asked desperately. He forced his accent through a bit more, hoping the lady would take the hint. She groaned and looked again.

“Only if you stop in San Antonio on the way. $19.”

“I…” Mike started, and the lady was already rolling her eyes as she put the ticket back.

“You dirty hippies think you can just sweet-talk your way into anything, huh?” she said bitterly.

“Wh--I didn’t even say--”

“Scram, kid,” she grunted, waving her hand. “Before I call the cops.”

Mike’s face tightened as he quickly walked away, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than he already had.  _ Ugh _ . One little mental mistake and now he has this lady breathing down his neck. It was going to be a lot harder to sneak onto something now. He walked like he was going toward the exit, then he veered off to the right and took a seat. He had two and a half hours to kill before that train to Houston arrived, and if that didn’t work, the train to San Antonio arrived a half hour later. And he had at least three more chances for both those places if he couldn’t get by the first time.  _ This is going to work, _ Mike thought as he unwrapped the PB&J Micky had packed for him.  _ I’m going home. _

The first time he tried to sneak on the train, a conductor politely stopped him.

“Can I see your ticket?” he asked, eyeing Mike.

“Oh! Uhm…” He lazily fumbled through his pockets. “Gee, I must have misplaced it. It’s alright, though, I already paid, so I’ll just go on ahead and--”

“Not so fast,” the conductor said, sticking his arm out. “No ticket, no boarding.”

“But--”

“No buts!” he yelled. “Come back with a ticket or don’t come back at all.”

He hovered around the platform for 30 minutes, perking up when the San Antonio train rolled in. With a new conductor came new hopes for sneaking on. This time, he tried his best to wriggle his way through the crowd unnoticed, but the guitar on his back posed several problems in this plan; most notably, he could not wriggle his way through the crowd. He was promptly kicked off the train.

This pattern continued for the next several hours. Somewhere along the way, he had completely forgotten about the mean ticket lady, but she couldn’t care less. Mike wasn’t the first person to try to sneak on a train and he wouldn’t be the last. After a while, though, security began to notice. 

“Hey,” Mike heard a gruff voice from above. It was 4:50 and he was slumped over on a chair, waiting for the next arrival.

He looked up and jumped a little at the officer standing above him.

“I’ve, uh, been seein’ you here a lot today,” he started.

Mike shrugged. “Just waitin’ for a train.”

“Where you heading?”

“Houston,” Mike sighed. 

“You know the last train to Houston just left at 4:30, right?”

Mike’s stomach dropped for a moment.  _ No, I didn’t know that _ . “Oh. No. Well, the 5 o’clock to San Antonio then.”

“They just canceled that train. It got stuck somewhere near Yuma with a technical failure. It won’t come in ‘till tomorrow afternoon.”

Mike felt all the air rush from his lungs. “Oh,” was all he could say. He’d just have to wait another day.

“Sneaking onto trains is a serious offense, you know,” the officer said, surprisingly calm. “It could land you a decent fine and a night in jail.” Mike couldn’t tear his gaze from the ground. “And we can’t allow people to sleep in the station overnight, either,” the officer said slowly. Mike nodded. He knew. He had tried.

To Mike’s surprise, the officer took a seat next to him. “You from Texas?”

Mike nodded. 

“Trying to get home?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Mike didn’t even think twice about why this random policeman was making small talk with him instead of handcuffing him. He was enjoying the company.

“You look like a musician.”

Mike shot him a look, but softened when he figured he meant the guitar, not the length of his hair.

“Let me guess. You came to California looking to make it big, and that didn’t work out so well, so now you’re heading home to re-evaluate your life?”

Mike gave him a  _ real _ hard look now.

“You’re not the first to pull this stunt, kiddo. Plenty of people who look like you have tried to sneak on trains or sleep inside here. They’re usually… on drugs. Stoned out of their minds. Totally crazy, disrupting the flow of things. They think just because they want something, they’re entitled to it. They cause a lot of trouble around here.”

Mike looked at the ground. “Do you normally make small talk with these crazy, dirty hippies?” he asked humorously.

The officer chuckled. “No. Not really. I usually just arrest them.”

Mike chuckled back. “Yeah.” A pause. “So why’re you talkin’ to me?”

“Because,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “You look a little more lost.”

Mike tensed up, thinking he was about to get tazed, when he noticed the officer was holding out his hand. Sitting in it was a 20 dollar bill.

Mike’s jaw dropped. “W-wh-what is--”

“--there’s a train to El Paso that leaves in 40 minutes. You can transfer to San Antonio and then to Houston from there. Going direct from El Paso to Houston costs more, so you’ll save a bit with the extra stop.” 

Mike gaped at the cop incredulously.

“Guessing it’s been a while since you’ve seen money like this,” the officer joked.

Mike simply stared at the money instead of just taking it. “Wh… why are you helpin’ me?”

“Like I said, kid. You look lost.” The officer took advantage of Mike’s shock and grabbed his hand, firmly placing the money into his open palm and curling Mike’s fingers over it. He stood up, shuffling his belt a little and offering Mike a warm expression. “Do what you want with it. It’s yours now.”

Mike was still wearing the same dumbfounded expression as the cop sauntered away.  _ Do what you want with it _ . What was that supposed to mean? He told him when the train was. He  _ knew _ Mike wanted to go home. He should be using this to buy a ticket… right? But why was he even helping him? Because he was a  _ calm  _ dirty hippie instead of a  _ crazy  _ dirty hippie? Mike should be on his way to a jail cell right now. Why didn’t he feel relieved? Somehow, this random train station security cop giving him free money seemed to  _ complicate  _ things. 

He turned the bill around in his hands. It almost didn’t seem real. He had come from California to Texas with $150, which seemed like plenty to him, especially once he started landing gigs. It was all the money he had saved for himself over the years, and while it wasn’t much, it was enough. Or so he thought. He had no concept of the price difference between the two states. His money could have kept him above water for a few months in Texas, but in California, it had only lasted him about 30 days before he went under. He had been stressing for  _ months _ about going back home, and just like that, it was finally an option. He didn’t have to sneak on a train. He didn’t have to feel out of place. He could buy a ticket like a normal person and just walk on without fear of being arrested.

But was that really what he wanted?

That cop, for whatever reason, had seen something in him that he didn’t see in all the other failed musicians who preceded him. He didn’t say “go buy yourself a ticket.” He didn’t say “train leaves in 40.” He said  _ do what you want with it. _ It was 5 o’clock. Mike could walk right out that door and meet Micky at 6:30. He could get dinner with him -- hell, he could _pay_ for dinner -- maybe talk about their lives a bit, and then go back to his place.  _ Their  _ place. Mike could have a guaranteed place to go back to. A place where he could get a real night’s sleep every night. A place where he could eat real food at normal times. A place that was temperature controlled.

But was that  _ really  _ what he wanted?

Micky was still a stranger, even after he opened up to Mike last night. He was nice and funny, but he was also moody and manic. He was a  _ lot _ to handle, and Mike couldn’t even imagine what he would be like if he  _ actually _ knew him. Music and cars seemed to be a mutual interest, but outside of that, it didn’t feel like they had anything in common. Of course, music was the single-biggest thing to Mike, so that alone could fuel a friendship. But Mike wasn’t even sure he  _ wanted _ a friendship. He was broke. Exhausted. Frustrated. Confused. And he couldn’t be all those things with someone breathing down his neck all the time. He needed to be somewhere familiar; somewhere where things made sense. It was all becoming too much.

So he marched up to the window and asked for a ticket to El Paso. It was $10. And he  _ paid _ . He even got some money  _ back _ . He sat in almost eerie silence for the next half hour. The time went by in a blink of an eye, because Mike actually did blink, and the train was arriving. He stood up, grabbed his guitar and sighed heavily as he made his way to the platform. It was funny-- he was legally getting on the train this time, and he somehow felt  _ more _ nervous than before. As the doors opened and the new arrivees shuffled out, Mike caught a glimpse of someone staring at him from the corner. It was the cop from before, giving Mike a look that was so unreadable he thought he was imagining things. He rubbed his eyes. The cop was still there. Mike tried to smile at him, but his brain wasn’t working quite like normal at the moment. He turned his attention back to the train in front of him.

He was going home.

It was an all-too-familiar feeling. 

Micky was unusually excited, and for someone like him, it took a  _ lot _ to make that distinction. His fellow mechanics kept asking him what he was so hyped up about, but all Micky told them was a friend was in town. He didn’t exactly feel comfortable telling everyone he adopted up a hobo off the street like a stray dog, mainly because he knew he would get scolded for it by his older colleagues. Everyone knew there was a bit more to it, though, because Micky was fixing cars at unbelievable speeds and talking so fast they thought a hole would rip open in the space-time continuum. They loved it, though. They loved Micky there. His unbridled, childlike energy brought something out in those gruff old men that they thought they had lost a long time ago. They were bummed he only worked there with them on weekends now.

Micky took his joy to the music store. It was only open for six hours on the weekend, but since it was the  _ weekend _ , it was a lot busier than normal. The only way Micky was able to make it through the weekend days was riding the high he got from working at the mechanic’s. Ever since he was a kid, he was always pulling stuff apart and putting it back together. There wasn’t a piece of technology that Micky hadn’t at least  _ attempted _ to reverse-engineer at some point. He loved to build, invent and experiment, and getting to work on cars was more of a release for him than a job. It was relaxing and satisfying work, way more than ringing customers up from behind a counter.

But today, he was content with just that. He was going to hang out with Mike! Mike actually wanted to stay! He couldn’t believe the turn of events. He thought that when he yelled at him for being so quiet, Mike would have stormed off and never talked to him again. But there he w as, asking to stay another night and then  _ saying he’ll be back later! _ He  _ wanted _ to be around Micky. It was incredible. Micky was convinced that Mike couldn’t stand him, but this was all the proof he needed to tell him he was wrong. They were roommates now! 

“Well, you sure seem happy today, Mick.”

Micky’s face lit up. “Al! What are you doing here?”

Al leaned up against the counter. “I had to stop by to make sure my store was still standing.”

Micky giggled. “It’s better than ever, if I do say so myself.”

Al chuckled and shook his head. “I was just on my way back from the drug store. Had to run out and get a few things for Joni,” he said, holding up a plastic bag.

“How’s the baby?”

“Oh, she’s wonderful. My sweet Lydia. Such a healthy little thing. So beautiful, just like her mother. But the loudest god damn crier I’ve ever heard.”

“Even louder than me?” Micky fake-gasped.

“Eh, probably not.” Al looked around for a moment. “Say, what ever happened to that kid who was hangin’ around here? With the funny hat?”

“Oh, Mike? We’ve been hanging out, actually!”

“Really? Surprised he could stand you for more than five minutes,” Al joked. “Well, he seemed like a nice kid. A little weird, though. Smelled terrible,” Al waved his hand in front of his nose. “He was eyeing the new Gretsch when he first stumbled in here. The only time I ever see that look on a man’s face is when he’s in love.”

“Mike’s the kind of guy who probably  _ would  _ fall in love with a guitar,” Micky quipped.

“Seems like you’ve gotten to know him pretty well.”

Micky shrugged. “He’s pretty quiet, but I think I more than make up for that.”

Al let out a laugh. “Well, I better get going. Joni’s probably wondering if I ran away from home or something. Keep up the good work, kiddo!”

“Bye, Al!” Micky waved as his boss walked out. He glanced up at the clock: 5 p.m. One more hour until closing, and then a half hour until he got to see Mike again. Even so late in the day, he was bubbling over with excitement, which helped the time fly by. Before he knew it, the last few customers were trailing out of the store and it was time to close up. It was time to see Mike!

Humming happily, Micky locked the door, flipped the sign to  _ close _ and practically skipped down the sidewalk like a little kid. When he arrived at his doorstep, he wasn’t surprised to see it empty. He was a little early, anyway. He didn’t have a watch, but he guessed it was around 6:15. He told Mike 6:30, so he sat down on the step and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“He’s probably just running late. I bet he’s working real hard to get some gigs,” Micky said to himself. Yeah. That was it. “He’s probably on his way right now!”

_ Waiting. _

“I bet he lost track of time. Sometimes those places don’t have clocks in ‘em.”

_ Waiting _ .

“He definitely got lost. LA is a confusing place to navigate!”

_ Waiting _ .

“What if he got kidnapped! Or abducted by aliens! Or stranded on a desert island with a mysterious treasure map! No, no. That’s too specific.”

_ Waiting. _

“Hmm. The sun’s getting real low now…”

_ Waiting _ .

“Maybe… maybe he just forgot?”

_ Waiting. _

_ Waiting. _

_ Waiting. _

“He’s not coming,” Micky said finally, this time out loud. The sun had set a half hour ago, and the street lights were flickering and buzzing. Crickets were chirping. Owls were hooting. It was dark, and Micky was alone.

_ Really _ alone.

All over again.

Mike sighed as the hands on his watch slowly click into place. 6:30. The sinking feeling from the morning still hadn’t fully left his system, and it was back in full force now. He distracted himself by keeping his eyes trained at the scenery out the window. He still didn’t feel the relief he thought he would, but he  _ did _ feel a little better when the cityscape melted into desert plains. Tiny green flecks Mike knew to be cacti flickered in his vision. Sometimes it looked like the tumbleweeds were going faster than the train. At some points, they probably were.

Mike must have forgotten how slow trains really went. It wasn’t even like he was going far, either -- El Paso was only 800 miles from LA compared to Houston’s 1,600. But it was still close to a 12-hour train ride. Mike wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t keep his mind quiet enough. Needing to pass the time, he reached for the notebook and flipped through his lyrics. They were great. How come they didn’t  _ sound _ great? Mike had tried changing the key and everything. It wasn’t like his guitar was out of tune or he was singing off-key. He was doing everything right, but it sounded so  _ wrong _ .

He flipped to a page and began quietly muttering the words to himself.

_ I just can't put my finger on what it is _

_ That says to me watch out, don't believe her _

_ I can't give any reasons girl, my thoughts are bound down in a whirl… _

“Gah,” Mike groaned. When he sang, it sounded so… gruff. Distant. Cynical. Probably just because he hadn’t really sang in a while, right? That had to be it. But it wasn’t like his voice was  _ normally _ whimsical and airy. He wanted this song to have sort of a light, mysterious edge to it. Mike was mysterious, but he was anything but light.

That’s when it hit him.

These songs sounded wrong because he didn’t write them for him to sing. These words, these melodies, these messages, they weren’t meant for him. 

They were meant for  _ Micky _ .

Mike frantically flipped through all the lyrics he had written down, trying to hear them in Micky’s soft voice. It fit. It all fit. It was perfect.

Micky had that touch. That unspeakable, unidentifiable touch that separated a good singer from a great one. Mike hadn’t realized it until now because it was the kind of thing you felt, not saw. Mike was _ looking _ so hard for so many things and he ignored how everything made him  _ feel _ . His quest to land a gig anywhere had turned from playing music as a passion to playing music as a necessity. He had lost the touch. Micky still had it.

Mike had only heard Micky sing that one time, and it was while he was still asleep. But maybe that helped him connect with the voice even better. Dreams are entirely feelings. There is no seeing or doing while you’re dreaming. You’re simply  _ feeling _ everything around you and inside you, and your brain turns it into imagery to keep you occupied while you snooze. He  _ felt _ Micky when he sang. He had never stopped feeling it. He just didn’t know what to do with it until now.

Mike almost wanted to bolt up and dramatically yell  _ STOP THE TRAIN!,  _ but they were truly in the middle of the desert now. Mike guessed they were still in California since he hadn’t even been on the train for an hour, but he didn’t remember seeing  _ this _ much desert on his way in. Maybe he thought California actually started with Los Angeles, because this was beautiful. He craned his neck up to marvel at the sky, which was now as wide open as he could remember. With the sun beginning to set, it brought back all the familiar colors and feelings of home. 

_ Home _ . Mike was on his way  _ home _ right now. But how could he possibly hope to write songs the same way again when all he could do was think of Micky’s voice when he wrote them? It was weird. It was all  _ so weird _ . Mike couldn’t get Micky out of his head, but he  _ needed _ to. He couldn’t go back to LA. But did he  _ really _ want to go home? It’s not like his mother was unsupportive of him, but she wasn’t exactly his biggest fan, either. She never understood why her only child turned out to be a musician instead of a businessman, and was even more discouraged when he ran off to California unannounced. At least Mike had  _ told _ her where he was going… the morning of.

_ Ugh _ . This wasn’t going to be easy, either. He hoped his mom would at least let him back into the house while he picked up the pieces of his life. Right now, Mike was stuck. Stuck on this train to El Paso, stuck between wanting music and wanting certainty. But music was all Mike cared about; it was all he was good at. It was all he wanted to do. He didn’t want to be a country singer, which is why he left Texas. He didn’t want to be a folk singer, which is why he went to LA. He wanted to make rock and roll music and he wanted to make it  _ meaningful _ . Mike struggled to find meaning in the months since he left, but he was slowly starting to realize that meaning took many different forms. Sometimes, you happen to bump into those forms on your way out of a music store at 6 in the morning. 

Mike sighed. This trip was taking too long, and it was dark out now. The only way to pass the time was either to play music or fall asleep, and he wasn’t about to get kicked off the train for playing guitar.

He was asleep within minutes.

Mike jolted awake. It was still pitch black. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and checked his watch. 4:41 a.m. Just about two hours until the train got to El Paso. He shuffled around in his seat and winced when the notebook slid off his lap and landed flat on the ground. The notebook.  _ Ugh _ . Mike had nearly forgotten all about what he was thinking of before he fell asleep for a surprisingly long amount of uninterrupted time. What was he going to do when he got to El Paso? Immediately burn his last $10 to go right back to LA? He couldn’t imagine Micky would be particularly thrilled with Mike lying to him -- then again, did he really  _ need _ to go and see Micky? Maybe his voice inspired Mike, but he surely wasn’t the only person in LA who sounded like that. All he needed to do was to find somebody to sing his songs and he’d be in business. Or, he could collaborate with Micky without having to live with him. There were so many new options now that Mike didn’t have before. He had much more of a plan than the first time, and now he actually knew someone who lived there. He would have no money, but he still had hope. He thought he had lost all of that when he left 10 hours ago.

Mike cycled in and out of sleep for the next two hours. He watched the desert sunrise with a sense of bliss he hadn’t had in a while and felt his heart leap when the train finally screeched to a stop. The station was small, but serviceable, and Mike was pleased that there was someone working the booth so early in the morning.

“One to Los Angeles, please.”

The man behind the window raised an eyebrow. “Didn't'ja just get off that train from there?” Mike was unnaturally excited to hear someone else speak in a Texas accent.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But, I, ah. Change of plans.”

The man shrugged. “Suit yerself. It’s $8.”

Mike happily paid and marched right back on the train he had just gotten off with an extra two dollars in his pocket to boot. The entire way back to LA, he debated whether he should go to Micky’s place or not. Ultimately, he didn’t want to keep crawling back to him whenever he found himself in distress. If he happened to run into Micky, so be it. He had rehearsed what he was going to say to him; he had one story about getting kidnapped and mugged. He had another story of playing gigs for clubs that stretched into the night. He had another story of him just flat-out forgetting. But none of them seemed convincing enough, so he’d probably end up not saying anything if and when he asked. Mike decided that he would just go back to some clubs and see if he could find a good singer. Maybe his fatal mistake was thinking he could carry a solo act. Sure, now he needed to rely on someone else for his success, but it wasn’t like going solo worked so well in the first place. He thought that if he couldn’t do everything himself, clubs would be even more reluctant to hire him. Anyone can play the guitar, but not everyone could play  _ and _ sing. It made Mike more valuable. He didn’t want to admit it at first, but now he realized that he needed a good front man. It didn’t  _ have _ to be Micky.

By the time the train pulled back into the city, Mike was exhausted. He went back to his tree in the park, and somehow, he was actually happy to be there again. The streets didn’t seem so unwelcoming this time. The people didn’t seem unforgiving. Maybe it was because he wasn’t covered in grime anymore, but he swore he saw some people flash him polite smiles. 

He took out his guitar and lazily strummed his new songs, signing the lyrics in his head. He made a few tweaks, but overall they still held up. This was good. These were good songs. Any amateur singer looking for a break would be happy to try them out. Mike leaned back against the trunk and gazed at the sun poking through the leaves, finding joy in the way the light reflected uniquely on each leaf he laid eyes on. With a renewed sense of energy, he got up and headed straight for the place Micky had recommended to him the other day. He had really only tried to land nightclubs, and this place was more of a straight-up diner than anything. He had always passed by because he didn’t think they did live music.

When he walked in, there weren’t too many people there, much to Mike’s relief. It was the middle of a beautiful Sunday afternoon -- everyone was at the beach.

“Hey, welcome to Chuck’s,” a young teenage girl greeted him. “Just one?”

“Uh, actually, I was wonderin’ if I could speak to whoever owns this place.”

“That would be me,” a nice-looking, middle-aged man with Buddy Holly glasses appeared from behind the front counter with a towel slung over his shoulder. He stuck out his hand with a grin. “Chuck Walton.”

Mike took his hand, a little taken aback by his show of politeness. “Uhm, Nesmith. Mi--”

“Nesmith! Great. Great name,” Chuck cut him off. “So what can I do ya for, Mr. Nesmith?”

“Well…” he shrugged his shoulders where his guitar case was. “I’m a musician, and someone I… a friend recommended I come and talk to you.”

Chuck raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is your friend George?”

Mike shook his head.

“Ah, whatever,” Chuck waved his hand. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

Mike pursed his lips. “Yeah. Texas.”

“Texas! Hoooo boy! That’s mighty far from here, partner!”

“Yeah,” Mike grumbled. He could see why Micky liked this guy so much.

“Well, I don’t know what your friend told you about me, but I don’t let just anyone play here. As you can see, we’re a very fine establishment with the highest of standards.”

_ Looks like any old diner to me _ , Mike thought.

“What’s your experience like?”

Mike’s cheeks turned red. “Well, I just moved here, y’see. I can play real well, but I… haven’t been able to play anywhere yet.”

Chuck nodded dramatically. “I see, I see. Well, I like you, Mr. Nesmith.”  _ How can you like me if you just met me? _ “You seem like a good kid with a great fashion sense. Let’s go into the back and you can play something for me, yeah?”

Mike nodded enthusiastically. When he first came to LA, most places were intrigued enough by Mike to let him audition, but they just weren’t interested in his overall sound. That could very well end up being the case all over again here, but it had been so long since he’d even been given a chance that he was excited. He was finally wearing clean clothes and didn’t smell like sewage.

He followed Chuck behind the counter and few a couple doors into his office. It wasn’t a huge space, but there was enough room for Mike to play comfortably. Chuck rounded his desk and plopped into the chair.

“Take your time, get assembled, do whatever it is you musicians need to do,” he said, crossing his feet up on his desktop. “And just go whenever you’re ready.”

Mike unpacked and tuned, strumming a few basic chords to make sure everything was up to snuff. He took a deep breath and decided to go with one of the songs he just wrote.

When he strummed the last chord, he meekly looked up at Chuck, whose inquisitive expression had not changed. After a few beats of silence, he spoke.

“You’ve certainly got talent, Nesmith.”

Mike sighed. That’s what  _ everyone _ said.

“...but I’m not entirely convinced your sound works for this place.”

Mike didn’t even hesitate. “What if someone else sang?”

Chuck’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t retaliate, so Mike kept going.

“What if -- if you know someone who’d be interested in singin’ my songs, well, then they can do it. I don’t have to sing. I’ll just play.”

Chuck hummed, leaning back in his chair and putting his finger on his chin. Mike had always thought that was for dramatic effect, but Chuck looked like it was actually helping him think.

“You’ve got that… long-winded Texas thing going on,” he finally said. “The whole lone ranger motif. That doesn’t exactly play well ‘round these parts.” Mike rolled his eyes at his sad attempt at a Southern accent. “But your talent is undeniable. And your song -- did you write that yourself?” Mike nodded. “Wonderful. Well, I happen to know a fella who’d love to sing a song like that. And if you write more of those kind of songs, well, I’d be happy to have you play here once a week. Maybe twice if the customers like ya.”

“I understand, mister -- wait, what did you say?”

Chuck laughed. “You. Can play. Here.”

Mike wasn’t just speechless. He was thought-less. Was this really happening? Was he hearing this right? Was that all it took? Had it been this easy all along?

“...that’s alright with you, yeah?”

Mike blinked and shot up out of his seat. “Y-yeah. Yes. Of course that’s alright! Yes! Thank you, thank you so much!”

“Hey, don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even asked my guy if he’d be interested. I think he would, but he’s a bit of a wild card. Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning? I’ll certainly know by then. We open at 7 a.m. on weekdays.”

“Yes. I will. 7 a.m. I’ll be here. You can count on it!”  
  
Chuck chuckled softly. “Great. Well, I’m sure glad you stopped by when you did, Mike. I had a young man who used to play here a few times a week, but he just quit on me. You’d make a mighty fine replacement for him.”

Chuck took a moment to analyze Mike up-close. It didn’t take a genius to see Mike was severely underweight and a bit messy. Chuck didn’t really know what his deal was, but he could tell he was in distress and, quite frankly, desperate. Musicians who wanted to become big-shots didn’t want to go to Chuck’s.

Chuck led him back out to the front and held the door for him, sticking his hand out for another shake.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Nesmith. I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon.”

Mike found himself grinning wildly as he shook Chuck’s hand again. When was the last time someone held the freaking  _ door _ open for him? He couldn’t believe he never tried this place before. He was going to have to give Micky a huge thank you if he saw him.

MIke was content as he walked down the street. Instead of heading to the park like he normally did, he decided it was such a beautiful day to be alive that he walked the extra half-hour to go to the beach. The crowd of people that would normally overwhelm him didn’t bother him one bit, and he was able to find a relatively quiet spot to relax. He had spent all summer hiding out beneath the shade of his tree that he almost forgot how wonderful the sun felt on his dry skin. He rolled up the sweatpants he was wearing, not caring that he was already starting to sweat through them. 

Mike could barely believe his luck. He couldn’t even remember the last time he  _ had _ luck. Soon, he’d be able to buy new clothes. Soon, he’d have enough money to afford two meals every single day. Soon, he’d be able to start playing music again. Soon, he’d be happier than he’s ever been before.

Things were finally looking up.


	5. For Pete's sake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started out as purely a mike and micky thing, but ever since i very cleverly titled the story origins, i realized i should probably do something on the other two band members...

Peter Tork couldn’t stay in one place for very long.

He supposed it was in his nature. He was born in Washington D.C., but his family moved to Connecticut when he was a kid. Connecticut wasn’t the most exciting place in the world, especially up north where there wasn’t anything but cows and hills. New York was in his backyard and offered up a much more alluring, ever-changing environment that Peter preferred. But being in New England certainly had its perks. His location made it extremely quick and easy to travel to different states. Up north, he’d hiked the mountains of New Hampshire, wandered the snowy woods of Vermont and enjoyed the rocky shores of Maine. He’d taken in all the cozy charm of Massachusetts. He’d driven to the soft beaches of Rhode Island countless times. That wasn’t to say he didn’t like Connecticut -- he enjoyed its relative secrecy from the rest of the country and he felt relaxed there. But he was two hours from the greatest music scene on the east coast, and he had to take advantage of it. He had tried his luck in the New England states, but nothing compared to what was going down in Manhattan. 

Much to the chagrin of his uptight, college professor parents, Peter split for NYC without so much as a goodbye. Peter never understood how he was the product of both those people. He respected his parents, but for his whole life, it always felt like there was some invisible barrier between him and them. He tried for so long to get them to respect what  _ he _ did, but they dismissed rock-and-roll with the same fervor all adults did. They had once flat-out told him that he shouldn’t apply for college at the university they worked at because they weren’t sure how good of a recommendation they could give him to the admissions board. That was the moment Peter decided to leave town. Any kid whose parents worked at the university were basically guaranteed a free ride, and they didn’t even want to give him  _ that _ . Peter supposed he was lucky they didn’t force him into economics or mathematics. They at least had the dignity to let him do what he wanted. They just never liked it.

To get enough money to support his big move, he sold the cheap car his parents had gotten him for his 16th birthday. He managed to snag $500 from it, and on top of the money he had earned while playing various small gigs over the years, he had about $750 in his pocket when he started his journey. He slipped out of his house one morning in early February while his parents weren’t home. He almost left without leaving a note, but he decided to scribble something quick and pin it up on the fridge so his parents wouldn’t send out a search party for him. He didn’t want to be found, because he wasn’t lost.

He managed to find someone willing to drive him from Mansfield to Hartford, where the train station was. It was his first hitchhiking experience, and he ended up having a wonderful conversation with the man who drove him. Peter didn’t understand why hitchhiking got such a bad rap. 

The train ride was only about two and a half hours. The only things Peter took with him were a duffel bag of clothes and his banjo. He didn’t have much of a plan, but he had heard from some friends that Greenwich Village is where it’s at. If the people there were anything like him, it would work out swimmingly.

Peter loved New York. He loved the city. There were so many people doing so many different things it almost didn’t seem real. How could there be  _ that _ many people in the world all in one place? He loved watching people go by and making up backstories for them and where they were going. The guy with the suit and briefcase walking 15 miles per hour was rushing home to see his kids. The old lady sitting on the bench and feeding the birds had run away from her nursing home. The two teens holding hands were only in a relationship to make their crushes jealous.

Peter had been to New York before, but not often enough to have a solid idea of where he was going. It didn’t matter, though. Once he got to Grand Central, he just kept walking south down Park Avenue until he saw signs pointing him to Washington Square Park. He enjoyed wandering around without a destination in mind. He didn’t need a plan. He was content following the twists and turns that life laid out for him.

He knew he was in the right place when he heard the twang of banjo music and the soft reverb of acoustic guitars. He gingerly approached the small group of people who were jamming, mostly because he didn’t want to disturb their flow. When a young woman with impossibly long blonde hair spotted him, she smiled and waved him over.

“Hi there,” she said sweetly. If a voice could be a bouquet of flowers, hers would be.

“Hi,” Peter grinned back.

“Don’t be shy! Come join,” she said, scooting over and making room for him. “We’re just grooving, man.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Peter brushed away some snow and sat cross-legged next to the girl, who introduced herself as Lily as she pointed to the lily tucked behind her ear. She reached down next to her and pulled up a daisy chain she made and placed it on Peter’s head. Peter grinned wildly. “I’m Peter.”

“You from around here?” a young man with pulled-back brown hair asked.

Peter nodded. “Connecticut.”

“Connecticut! Groovy. I’m from Dallas.”

“That’s quite a long way,” Peter remarked, taking his banjo off his back and removing it from the case.

“I’m just following the music, man. This is where it’s at.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Steve.”

Peter smiled and shook Steve’s hand. In two minutes, he had already felt more welcomed here than he had his entire life.

“What brings you to Greenwich, Pete?” someone from the other side of the circle asked.

Peter shrugged. Did these people really want to hear his life story? “The music, man.”

“Right on, man,” he replied, forcefully strumming his own banjo. “Hey, is that a Deering?”

Peter nodded. “It was a gift from my grandfather. I’ve had it since I was 13.”

“Ah, the love of music. Passed down from generation to generation,” Steve said dreamily. “This guitar’s from my dad. We moved a lot when I was a kid, so he got me this to keep me sane, I think.”

“Did it work?” Peter asked cheekily.

Steve grinned. “You tell me, Pete!” He began finger picking, and Lily immediately hummed a beautiful melody to accompany it. He noticed that nobody else was joining in, so Peter took it upon himself to start up a counter-melody of his own. It was like it was meant to be, him and Steve. The two played uninterrupted for 10 minutes, and neither of them noticed when Lily had stopped singing. She was enamored by what she was hearing. 

When they finally stopped, the circle erupted into applause and cheers.

“That was amazing, Peter!” Lily said, leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. Peter flushed red.

“Yeah, man. That was outtasite.” Steve scooted over and clapped his back. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Peter shrugged. “Just taught myself, I guess.”

“You’ve got talent, that’s for sure.”

The group played until the sun went down and the cops in the park began scolding them for ‘disturbing the peace'. Peter shook hands and hugged everyone, who said they’d meet back here tomorrow. 

“You got a place to go back to, Pete?” Steve asked.

Peter shook his head. “I figured I’d just sleep on a bench or something.”

Steve gasped. “No way, man! You’ll freeze out here. Say, why don’t you crash at my place? We’ve already got four people there, but you can take the closet. At least until you find a place of your own?”

Peter nodded enthusiastically. He was mentally preparing for having to sleep outside, but he certainly wasn’t going to pass up on the chance to actually stay somewhere. Besides, he really liked Steve. He wanted to get to know him more.

So Peter stayed with Steve for a few weeks. The closet life wasn’t luxurious, but it was more than a park bench in the middle of winter. Every day they went down to Washington Square with the same people and played the same music. Peter loved it. He absolutely loved it. He was more content than he’d ever been in his life, but he soon realized that he needed to start making money. He didn’t feel comfortable mooching off Steve’s hospitality. Steve had a few steady gigs at some cafes around the island and was more than happy to share his space with Peter. Peter had been reluctant to try and find any gigs up until now, because he soon realized that he had paralyzing stage fright when Lily tried to get him to sing in front of the group. He wasn’t a great singer, but he was a heck of a banjo player. Unfortunately, most places weren’t looking for a guy who just played an instrument. They needed to be able to sing well, too.

“Hey, you know a good place to land a gig?” Peter asked one day while him and Steve were out for a walk, taking advantage of one of those abnormal 55-degree days in early March. “I need to start getting some bread, man.”

“Well, there’s Gerde’s Folk City where I play the most. But it’s kind of high-profile.” Steve knew about Peter’s stage fright. He found out when he took him to a gig on the Upper East Side. He invited Peter to open for him, but Peter suddenly became very pale and insisted he just watch from the audience. “The Cafe au Go Go is the same. I’ve been tryin’ to get in there for months, but they don’t like solo acts too much.”

Suddenly, a light went off in Peter’s head. “Let’s go there together!”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that, Pete?”

Peter nodded. “Yes. We sound great together, man! You can sing, and I’ll just play. Maybe harmonize. We could ask Lily to come too?”

Steve considered this. He was content being a solo act, since that always worked best for him. But he wanted to help Peter, and if he thought this could make him happy, he was willing to try it.

“A trio, huh? What would we call ourselves?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m no good with names. That’s more Lily’s bag.”

“We’ll have to ask her, then!” The two walked in silence for a bit. “You sure about this, man? I know how you get with crowds. Maybe we should start smaller.”

Peter shook his head. “It’s alright, really. I just can’t sing like you and Lily can. I’ve got the music in me, and I should be sharing it, you dig?”

Steve grinned. “Dig.”

Later that day, they asked Lily about forming a trio, to which she enthusiastically hugged both of them and gave them kisses. Peter was afraid that the others they hung out with would get jealous that they were forming a trio without them, but they assured him countless times that they were happy for them. The others really had no intention of hitting it big -- they just played the music because they loved it.

“I already know the perfect name!” Lily said as she reached into her bag and pulled out two more daisy chains and placed them on each of their heads. “The Flower Children!”

Steve and Peter exchanged a glance and nodded. “It’s perfect,” Peter said with a smile.

“Yay!” she twirled in happiness. “Your stage name can be Smiling Pete. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not smiling.”

Peter blushed. “I’m just real happy to be with you guys, that’s all.”

Steve waved his hand in dismissal. “Aw, Pete. You big ol’ sap. Sappy Pete is more like it, I think.”

Lily giggled. “We can work on it.”

Luckily for the newly-formed Flower Children, Steve knew someone who was in charge of hiring acts at the Cafe au Go Go. His buddy was quite pleased when Steve walked in before opening one afternoon with a group of people instead of by himself.

“Finally taking my advice, huh? You finally got yourself a group.” The hiring manager, James, was a burly man in his late 30s. He was once a flourishing folk musician, but arthritis cut his young career short. He co-founded the cafe, which was in the basement of a theater on Bleecker Street, to help other musicians get their big break.

“James, this is Peter.” The two shook hands. “He’s from Connecticut!”

“Right on! I’m from Danbury.”

“Mansfield,” Peter smiled.

“What brings you down here, Peter from Mansfield?”

Peter held up his banjo. 

“Oh, a  _ banjo _ player. That’s what you’ve been missing all long, Steve-o. Oh, and who is this lovely lady?”

“This is Lily,” Steve said, smiling as Lily pulled him in for a hug. “I met her in the Vil. She’s a wonderful singer.”

“Right on,” James said. “Well, Steve-o, you know how much I like you, but just for the formalities, you mind playing something for us? Bossman would have my head if I didn’t go through all the proper procedures.”

“We’d love to,” Peter said, walking over to an empty table and placing his case down. He tuned his banjo and turned to Steve, who was going through all the same steps with his guitar.

“Ready?” he asked. Peter and Lily nodded, and they played beautifully. It was hardly an audition -- they were simply enjoying themselves and the music. When they finished, James was clapping.

“See how much better that is than you playing yourself, Steve?” he said playfully, wrapping an arm around him. “Normally, I don’t like to bring total strangers into the cafe, but you all sound so  _ good _ together. Plus, I like Steve. That certainly helps,” he grinned. “Let’s start you guys out this Saturday, yeah? That’s our busiest night, but you can more than handle it. Get here at 6 p.m. for setup. It’ll be packed!”

Peter smiled as James and Steve hashed out the details, but inside, his stomach was churning. He was fine with playing in the park or in an empty cafe. He could hardly picture this place being filled with people, and that thought alone scared him. Maybe he really  _ wasn’t  _ prepared for this. But he couldn’t let Steve or Lily know he was feeling apprehensive. He noticed how happy they were whenever Peter was happy. It was his idea to do this, after all. He needed to stay happy for them.

The days leading up to Saturday flew by. The Flower Children practiced in the park and played for their friends, who all agreed that they sounded incredible. On Friday afternoon, Lily was running late, so Peter and Steve practiced riffing off each other just in case they needed to improvise on Saturday. 

“Hey fellas!” Lily was running toward them, her long skirt flowing gracefully behind her. “You’ll never believe it!”

“What’s going on?” Peter asked, sitting up.

“My parents! My parents called me!” she practically yelled, taking a seat next to Steve. “They said they’re going to be in New York tomorrow! I invited them to our show!”

“That’s so great, Lily!” Steve leaned over and gave her a big hug. Peter smiled weakly, but didn’t say anything as Lily continued to bubble over with excitement. Lily’s parents were musicians themselves, mainly backing up various small-time gigs around the country. Lily had grown up in an RV and yearned to settle down somewhere, so when she was 18, her parents had dropped her off in New York per her request. She quickly met Steve and the others and sang a bit with some girlfriends, but they all moved on over the years. Lily had never even considered forming a group with Steve, since he was so set on playing solo, until Peter brought it up. Peter seemed to change everything -- he brought the group closer together with his relentless optimism and happiness. Steve liked him so much that he was willing to be in a band just to make him happy. He had never done that for anyone before.

But the one thing Peter didn’t have was supportive parents. Knowing that Lily was excited for her parents to see her play made him happy, but he couldn’t help but feel jealous. He hadn’t even heard from his parents since he left over a month ago. Of course, they had no way of reaching him, but Peter could have phoned them. He was too scared to.

“You okay, Pete?” Lily nudged him. “You haven’t said anything. Aren’t you happy?”

Peter managed to fake a smile. “Of course I am. I’m just... nervous, is all.”

“Oh, Pete,” Steve tutted. “I told you, you have nothing to worry about. Just focus on playing like you do so well. Lily and I will take care of the singing and the crowd, alright?”

Peter nodded. Those really weren’t the words he needed to hear, but he would take it.

“Let’s practice a bit more, alright?” Steve said, hoisting his guitar up. “That’ll cheer you up.”

Steve was right -- playing music always cheered Peter up. By the end of their impromptu practice session, Peter felt significantly better than before. As long as he had music, he’d be alright.

“Meet you in the park at 5 tomorrow, alright?” Steve called out to Lily as they left the diner. Lily smiled and waved, skipping carefree down the street. He turned his attention to Peter, who, if Steve didn’t know him better, looked like he was  _ sulking _ .

“C’mon, Pete. Level with me here. You’re hung up on something, I know it. You barely said a word at dinner.”

Peter looked at him like he had been caught in the act.

“C’mon, man. What’s buggin’ you? Are you really just nervous about tomorrow?”

Peter sighed. “No,” he admitted. 

“Okay, what is it, then? You can tell me, man. We’re friends.”

Peter looked at him, his eyes beginning to gloss over. “It’s just… Lily’s parents. They’re so supportive of her.”

Steve  _ ahh _ ’d in understanding. “Guessing that’s not the case with you.”

Peter shook his head, blinking hard to keep tears from falling. “My parents don’t care about my music. They think I'm wasting my time. They didn’t kick me out, not really, but I left home on my own without telling them. I just left them a note. I’ll probably never talk to them again.”

Steve took a moment to take in everything Peter had just told him. He had suspected he didn’t have a great relationship with his parents, but it was only a theory until now.

“Listen, man. Family’s more than just bloodline. Family is whatever you want it to be. Family supports you and loves you no matter what. Pete,  _ we’re _ your family. You shouldn’t fuss over people who’ll never understand or care about  _ you _ . _We_ care about you, Pete. You’re a great guy, and I’m awfully glad you randomly stumbled into our jam session.”

Peter let the tears fall, but not because he was upset. He stopped walking and pulled Steve into a bone-crunching hug.

“Okay, okay!” he laughed, pushing Peter away. “Don’t be nervous about tomorrow, okay? Everything’s going to be just fine.”

Peter wiped his nose and smiled. “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve nodded and patted his friend on the back. The two slept in pretty late the next morning, which was a rarity for Peter. Usually, he woke up around 9 a.m. because he got too cramped in the closet or the other roommates made too much noise. When he checked his watch, it was almost noon, and upon emerging from his windowless cave, he noticed the apartment was empty and Steve was still asleep. Peter decided to make some eggs and toast for them. It was the only meal he knew how to cook.

In the hours leading up to the gig, Peter tried his best to push aside his nerves. For the first time in the few weeks since he’d been living with Steve, he stayed inside all day. It was now mid-March and some early signs of spring were popping up. Today, it was a cool 50 degrees outside and the sun was shining into even the darkest parts of the city. Before Peter knew it, it was 4:45.

“You ready to head out?” Steve called into the living room.

Peter swallowed down the huge lump in his throat. “Y-yeah,” he stammered, slowly standing up and grabbing his banjo.

“Remember, no worrying,” Steve smiled, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re gonna do great. You barely even notice the crowd once you get into the music.”

Peter nodded, sincerely believing every word Steve said. They met Lily in the park and made their way to the cafe. Peter’s nerves began to pick up when he noticed just how many people were hanging around outside. 

_ Breathe, Peter. Breathe _ . That was his mantra for the night. As long as he remembered how to breathe, he could play. He weaved through the crowd, making his way behind the small stage.

“Ah, if it isn’t the Flower Children!” James called out with a wide smile. He gave all three members a hug. “Welcome to the Saturday Night Jubilee. There’ll be a few acts who go on before you, so feel free to grab some food on the house while you wait.”

The trio nodded and said their thanks as they set their instruments down and took a seat in front of the stage at a small table. 

“Oh! Can’t forget these!” Lily reached into her bag and pulled out the patented flower crowns for Steve and Peter. Steve thought it was silly, but Peter really liked it. They were the Flower Children, after all. They needed flowers!

Peter watched in borderline horror as the night went on. The place was now filled wall-to-wall with people, and considering the cafe was just in the basement space of another building, it felt a lot more crowded than normal. All the acts who played before them were  _ amazing _ . At one point, a nine-member group was on stage. Peter noticed all nine of them singing in one form or another. He gulped. He was going to be the most disappointing person of the night, he was sure of it. But he couldn’t ruin this for Steve and Lily. Lily thought this was all fun, but Steve had been trying to get into this place for a while. He knew how serious he was about music, and if this was a way for Steve to catch his big break, then so be it. Peter was more than happy to help. This was for his friends as much as it was for him. He had to stay strong for them. 

Before he knew it, he was standing behind the curtain, clutching the neck of his banjo with shaking hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to introduce to you a new group in our lineup. They’re quite talented, I assure you, so please give a warm welcome to Greenwich Village’s own Flower Children!”

Peter didn’t even hear how much applause they got, because all sound was replaced with a ringing in his ears as soon as the blinding lights pierced his eyes. Almost mindlessly, he made his way to a small stool in the back corner of the stage which he knew was for him. Steve and Lily did all the talking, introducing themselves and even taking the liberty to introduce Peter. He barely remembered smiling after Steve ran through his short bio. He gave him a concerned stare for a few moments, but quickly snapped his attention back to the crowd.

“We’re the Flower Children, and I hope you can dig it,” he said with a smile before strumming the first chord. At that sound, Peter’s senses returned to him. Suddenly, all he could hear was the music. Steve was right -- the crowd really _did_ melt away as soon as he started to play. He focused solely on his fingers, and he was certain that he didn’t make one mistake throughout the entire show. He truly had no idea what was going on around him except for the fact that Steve was playing the counter-melody and Lily was singing beautifully. It was like he was taken over by the ghost of all banjo players' past for an hour. It wasn’t until the crowd erupted into an ear-shattering applause that Peter remembered where he was and what he was doing. Steve and Lily had come to his side and each slung an arm around his shoulders. The Flower Children beamed brightly and took a bow before dancing off the stage.

“You guys, that was  _ magical! _ Simply magical!” Lily cheered, giving them both big hugs.

“Peter, my God. That was incredible,” Steve breathed.

“Otherworldly,” Lily agreed.

Peter shrugged, but was smiling. “I think I blacked out.”

The three exchanged compliments for a few minutes until someone poked Steve on the shoulder and took him aside. Peter and Lily watched from a distance until Steve came back with an even bigger grin plastered on his face.

“Who was that?” Lily asked.

“Some guy named Richie. He’s in a group that plays here twice a week and he just invited me to come watch them play.”

“Just watching?” Peter asked, panic apparent in his voice. Steve smiled and put his hand on his shoulder. 

“Yeah, Pete. Don’t worry, bud. We just played our very first gig and it was a total gas. You really think I’d leave the band already?”

All Peter could do was shrug and let out a nervous laugh. He really had no idea what to expect, which was fine with him, he supposed. All he really wanted to do was play music with his friends, and that was exactly what he was doing right now. No matter what happened, he had just taken a big step forward in conquering his stage fright. Sure, he wasn’t sentient during the entire performance, but he played great and didn’t shit his pants on stage. That was a win for him.

Peter watched in jealousy when Lily met up with her parents and introduced them to everyone. Her dad was an assistant producer and her mom was a part-time seamstress, part-time bassist. They were both just like her -- carefree, happy and relaxed. Peter liked them, and they liked Peter. Lily decided to head out early and show her parents around town a bit, so Steve and Peter caught up with their other Village friends and hung out at the club until 2 a.m. when they finally shut the doors. Slightly drunk and definitely stoned, they all stumbled their way back to their respective places. Though he was slightly under the influence of drugs, Peter was content. Overall, he really had a fun night. Meeting Lily’s parents didn’t even end up being all that bad. He played music for hundreds of people and they had  _ liked it _ . This was everything he had wanted to do. 

He was with his family now.

“Hey, Pete, can we talk?”

It had been a few weeks since the Flower Children’s first performance at the Cafe au Go Go. They had played every Saturday since then, and even started adding Wednesday nights into their lineup. Peter had become engulfed in the group. He spent all his time practicing his banjo, completely abandoning his desire to move out of the closet and into his own place. The gig paid pretty well, too, so Peter had plenty of money to get his own place by now. He didn’t really want to, though. He was addicted to playing shows. It was like he melted away into a different, better version of himself on stage. 

“What’s up, Steve?” Peter asked, putting his banjo on the ground next to him. Steve slowly took a seat next to him on the couch, taking a deep breath. Peter’s stomach immediately plummeted.

“Look, I’ve been having a blast with you and Lily. It’s probably the most fun I’ve ever had playing. I had been in a rut for so long, y’see. I was just playing solo. I was kinda stuck. But, well… remember Richie? From our first performance?”

Peter nodded.

“Well, he’s looking for a few people to… form a band.” His eyes were cast downward and he rubbed the back of his neck. “He asked me if I was interested.”

Peter stayed silent.

“I told him yes. But, look, that’s only because… well, Lily’s leaving town.”

Now, Peter looked up. “What?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his voice starting to crack. “She’s going back out on the road with her parents. She left last night.”

“...she didn’t even say goodbye,” Peter whispered quietly, wiping his eyes.

“I tried to get you to come out last night, but you didn’t want to leave. None of us knew she was splitting until last night. I had known she’d been thinking about it, but then you asked about forming a trio and we just -- we couldn’t say no. Not to you. I’m sorry, I should have called while I was out. Or told you as soon as I came back last night. But you just looked… so… so happy, Pete. I dunno. I guess I wanted to spare your feelings for as long as I could, for your sake. I’m so sorry, man.”

Peter was speechless. He didn’t quite know what to think. Steve was only trying to be nice -- he just said as much. Peter always put on the happy face, and he must have looked  _ so _ happy that any semblance of the truth would have crushed him. Peter liked to think of himself as a happy-go-lucky, go-with-the-flow kind of guy. His parents always scolded him for being a hippie, so there had to be some weight to that thought. 

“You’re welcome to keep staying here, if you’d like. And I talked to James, he said he could pull some strings with some people he knows so you can keep playing gigs. I’m going to be focusing on this new band, though. I know I said I wouldn’t quit our band, but with Lily gone, I… the Flower Children are done.” Steve desperately searched Peter’s face for a reaction, but he remained emotionless. “I’m sorry, man. I really am.” Steve got up, giving Peter his patented shoulder pat before disappearing into his bedroom and gently closing the door.

And just like that, Peter was alone.

Peter wasn’t typically one to sulk. Sulking rarely accomplished anything, and Peter hated feeling sorry for himself. So he continued his music obsession, only ever leaving Steve’s place to play a gig or to practice outside as the weather warmed up a bit. He had hardly spoke to Steve or his other friends since the band broke up, and Peter preferred it that way. At least for now. He wanted the guilt and pity to pass so he could start interacting normally with everyone again. His dedication to music, though, literally paid off. He was making a ton of money from the four or five places he played solo, and he finally began to grow tired and cramped inside the closet. He decided he would ask Steve if he knew of anyone looking for a roommate. Since shutting himself out from everyone, Peter began to feel like he was invading their space, no matter how many times Steve insisted he wasn’t.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve said as he arrived home. He set the keys down on the entry table and smiled at Peter. Peter had been insisting he was okay and he just needed some time to sort things out for himself. Steve understood completely, but he didn’t think Peter was truly that upset or depressed. He was still smiling every day and still playing music.

“Hi,” Peter said, setting his banjo down on the couch. “How was rehearsal?”

Steve raised his eyebrows in surprise. Peter hadn’t asked him that question before. 

“It was, uhm. Good,” he said awkwardly, grabbing a soda from the fridge. “We got a spot at the Cafe au Go Go in a few days.”

“That’s great!” Peter said, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. The thought of him moving in with someone else and not having to think about the Flower Children was getting him excited.

“Yeah,” Steve said, cautiously taking a seat in the chair across from the couch. “So… don’t take this the wrong way. I really enjoy having you here. But… have you maybe thought of moving into your own place? Again, not that I don’t want you here, but--”

Peter laughed. “Yeah, I have actually.”

“--I just don’t think the closet space is-- wait, you have?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been making such good money from playing solo that I think it’s time to move on.” Peter didn’t mean to word it that way, and flushed red when the words slipped out. “I… I was actually going to ask if you maybe knew somebody? Or if one of the other guys did?”

“As a matter of fact, I do!” Steve said happily, putting the soda bottle down on the table. “One of Benny’s friends knows a guy whose cousin’s sister’s best friend works on Broadway.” Peter took a second to follow that connection. “Her name’s Valerie… Valerie something. She works with someone who just moved into town. She’s been hosting him, but she apparently doesn’t like rooming with people who are the opposite sex.” Steve shrugged at this. “Hey, it’s her bag. But if you’re interested, you can meet this guy and see if you’d make good roommates?” 

“That sounds great!” Peter was genuinely excited for this. Broadway! The bright lights! The big stage! Rooming with someone who understood the rigor and demands of show business was a huge bonus. Maybe his roommate would become famous one day! “What’s his name?”

“I’ve no idea,” Steve admitted. “Got lost in translation somewhere. What I do know is that he’s British and works at Stardust on weeknights.” Steve reached over his soda bottle and grabbed a pen and paper. “Do you know Stardust?”

Peter shook his head.

“It’s this diner where the wait staff sings show tunes for you. It’s far out. Basically, all the Broadway actors work there between shows to make extra cash. But it’s pretty exclusive to be able to get a job there, so this guy must be pretty talented.” Steve ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to Peter. “That’s the address in case you forget. 51st and Broadway. And I wrote my number on there, just in case you forgot that too. I’m guessing there aren’t too many British people who work there, so this guy should be pretty easy to spot.” Steve offered a smile. “Sound good, buddy?”

Peter nodded. “This is great. I’m sorry if I’ve been so distant. It just… it all took me by surprise. Normally I’m all for change, but I think that was because my life back in Connecticut wasn’t all that great.”

Steve smiled and sat next to Peter, wrapping his arm around him. “I understand. You’re new here, and it was a lot of stuff happening all at once. But hopefully this new roommate works out for you, because you’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever met.” Peter blushed, and Steve playfully ruffled his hair. “C’mon, man! You play a gig practically every night. I don’t know too many people who can say that. Things are going good for you, Pete. You’re gonna hit it big soon, I know it. Don’t lose the faith, alright?”

“Never,” Peter said, pulling Steve in for a hug. This time, Steve didn’t push him away.

“I should get going soon if I wanna meet this guy.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, getting up and grabbing his soda bottle. “I’d leave the banjo here, though. Doubt they want to deal with any more musicians in that place than they already do.”

“Good call,” Peter agreed. He slipped his moccasin shoes on and grabbed a light jacket. “You’ll be here when I get back, yeah?”

“Of course,” Steve said, halfway into his room. “Good luck!”

The two waved as they went their separate ways. 

It was about an hour walk to the diner, which would have been grueling in February, but it was doable in April. Peter was admiring how the buildings grew taller and flasher as he headed toward Times Square, so he didn’t notice the long line of people snaking around the sidewalk.

“Hey! Watch it,” a grumpy guy mumbled when Peter bumped into him. 

“Sorry, sorry… hey, what’s this big line for, anyway?”

“The diner,” the man shot back rudely.

Peter craned his neck around to see a big, flashing neon sign: ELLEN’S STARDUST DINER. Oh. So  _ this _ was it. 

“Well, I just need to go in to meet somebody.”

“I don’t care!” the man said. “You gotta wait in line like everyone else.”

Peter was about to protest, but he saw the looks a few people were giving him. Trying to cut a line full of impatient New Yorkers probably wasn’t the best move.

He waited in line, very patiently and quietly, for what had to be an hour. By the time he got to the front, he was practically itching to get in.

“How many?” a lady with a clipboard asked.

“Huh?”

“How many in your party, dear.”

“My party-- oh! Just me.”

“One? Just you?”

Peter nodded.

“Oh, Lord. You didn’t have to wait in this whole line! We’ve had counter seats open all night.”

Peter blushed, but the lady grabbed his arm and pulled him out of line.

“Do you live here?” she asked. Peter nodded. “Downtown.”

“Good. Next time you come here alone, just cut in front of everyone. Nobody ever wants to sit at the counter,” she whispered in his ear. “The tourists don’t even know there  _ is _ a counter.” She gave him a big smile and stepped back outside, leaving Peter alone in the diner.

It was a pretty impressive space. Complete with two levels, there were only two or three people at the counter that was fit for at least 15 people, but the booths were packed and the place was  _ loud _ . The only lighting in the place was provided by an array of Christmas lights, neon signs and glitter balls, but spotlights from the ceiling pointed down on the various singing waiters. Peter’s eyes went wide -- these waiters were walking on platforms that were level with the tables, performing as if it were an actual Broadway show! Peter had pictured it as waiters just singing to a table when they brought over your burger and fries. This was an entire  _ show _ . Different singers dueting from the top and bottom floors, waiters dropping off milkshakes and then hopping onto the stage in the center of the room to break out into song. It was beautiful. Peter decided he’d come back here even if the roommate thing  _ didn’t _ work out.

Peter ordered a burger and fries and sat for 15 minutes listening to the waiter’s accents, but he couldn’t pick out anybody who was British. He supposed he’d have to ask somebody -- it’s not like the Beatles sounded British when they sang. 

“Excuse me,” he said, sticking his hand up as a waitress walked by. “Hi, uh, I’m looking for someone who works here? He’s… British?”

The lady looked at Peter, confused. “He’s your friend?”

“Well, he’s a friend of a friend. Of a friend of a friend of a friend…”

“...right. Well, I’ll go find him, I guess,” she said, dropping off some milkshakes at a nearby booth. Peter rubbed his eyes and took a long gulp of water. Why was that so awkward?

“I ‘eard you were looking for me?”

Peter perked up at the sound of a very distinct British accent. The boy in front of him couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. He had sleek, chocolate-brown hair and big, bushy eyebrows that somehow made his handsome face look even  _ better _ . He was quite short, but Peter could tell right away that he acted bigger than he was. He had to, Peter supposed. He looked at Peter with a face that was equal parts intrigued, confused and annoyed.

“I, uhm… hi. I’m--”

“--do I know you?” the boy cut him off.

Peter’s face went red. “Well, uh, no.”

“Then how do you know me?” he cocked one of those big eyebrows.

“I, uh… one of my friends, our roommate, he has a sister -- no, a cousin -- who has a sister, who has a friend -- or, wait, maybe it’s a friend’s sister? A friend’s cousin --”

“Listen, mate, I’ve got to get back to work,” the boy rolled his eyes and began to walk away.

“Valerie!” Peter said suddenly, and the boy turned back around. “Her name’s Valerie.”

“Valerie Austin?”

“Sure!” Peter said. “You live with her?”

The boy nodded slowly. “‘Ow do you know all this?”

“My friend Steve -- well, our roommate Benny --”

“Benny Carter?”

“Yes! Benny Carter! Boy, you sure know a lot of people. He said you’re looking for a roommate.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the boy was now leaning against an empty barstool. “What, you wanna try out or something?”

“Do I have to audition? I didn’t bring my banjo,” Peter gasped.

The boy’s expression softened and he laughed. “I’m just messin’, mate.” He stuck his hand out. “David Jones. Most people call me Davy.”

“I’m Peter! Peter Tork!” Peter grabbed his hand and shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, David.”

Davy cocked his head. “Didn’t you ‘ear me? I said most people call me Davy.”

Peter nodded and grinned. “I know. I’m not like most people, though.”

Davy smirked. “You’re definitely one strange bloke, since you came all this way just to find me.”

“I need a roommate. And a little birdie told me you need one, too.”

“Which bird?” Davy asked, completely serious. Peter cocked his head to the side.

“Never mind,” Davy shook his head. “Well, you’re right. Valerie’s kickin’ me out, mate. She doesn’t want to live with a guy. All the blokes I know have places already. Who’d you say you were friends with again?”

“Benny Carter. He’s my roommate now. One of them.”

“Benny. Right. He’s Valerie’s best friend’s sister’s cousin’s friend’s friend.”

Peter nearly passed out from his head spinning in circles trying to figure that out.

“‘Ow many people you live with?”

Peter couldn’t help but smile at Davy’s accent. “Four others.”

“How do you fit  _ five _ blokes in a New York apartment?” Davy asked.

“I sleep in the closet,” Peter shrugged.

Davy’s eyes went wide. “The  _ closet _ ? You must be joking!”

Peter laughed and shook his head. “I think it’s cozy. But I can’t really practice my banjo in there and it’s hard to find alone time.”

“Banjo, eh? That’s real folksy. Real American,” Davy joked.

“That’s the point!” Peter laughed. Suddenly, an angry-looking woman stormed up to them.

“David! What are you doing? Socializing with the customers? You’re supposed to perform in two minutes! Let’s go! Chop chop! Get to your mic!”

Davy blushed. “Guess that’s my cue. Say, I like you, Peter. We should meet up again when I’m not at work.”

Peter grinned wildly at Davy pronouncing his name like “Pee’uh”.

“Yes!” Peter cheered. “I’m playing at the Cafe Wha? tomorrow night. You should come by if you’re not busy.”

“The Cafe what?” Davy repeated.

“That’s right. Cafe Wha?”

“Cafe  _ what?” _

“Yes! Cafe Wha!” Peter suddenly realized where the miscommunication might be. “Give me your notebook,” he said, gesturing to Davy’s waiter notepad. He handed it over and Peter scribbled the name and address of the cafe on it. “I’ll be there from 9 ‘till midnight.” 

“Ooh! I don’t work tomorrow, since I’ve got a late afternoon calltime. Hopefully I can find this bloody place…” he muttered, studying the address Peter had written down for him.

“DAVID! 30 SECONDS!”

“I gotta go,” Davy pushed himself up from the stool and shoved the paper in his front pocket. 

“Good luck, David!” Peter waved. That could not have gone any better. Davy was so cool! And very funny. He seemed nice, too, which was the most important thing Peter was looking for in a potential roommate. He owed Benny a lot of thank you’s for setting the two of them up.

“Alright, folks, let’s give a big round of applause for Amy! That was Amy, singing Impossible Dream from Man of La Mancha.” Peter heard none of her performance, but clapped nonetheless. “And now, our resident British invader is bringing something special from across the pond. Singing Consider Yourself from Oliver, here’s mister Davy Jones!”

Peter whooped and cheered as the music started playing and Davy climbed onto the center stage, slinging the microphone cord behind him. Davy was already dancing and hopping around the music. 

“Consider yourself at home! Consider yourself, one of the family. I’ve taken to you so strong! It’s clear, we’re, going to get along…”

Peter had a dumb grin on his face the entire time Davy was performing. He had insane charisma; way more than Peter could ever hope to have for even one night. It was clear he took his craft seriously -- even with an annoying microphone cord snaking around his ankles, he still managed to maneuver the stage masterfully and command the crowd. How Davy wasn’t already the biggest star on Broadway, Peter would never understand. For someone in such a small package, Davy had a big presence.

When the song finished, Peter had leapt out of his seat and was yelling Davy’s name. Davy was relishing in the applause he was getting like he did every night. Everything about him -- especially his short stature and cute British charm -- made him a crowd favorite. Davy caught Peter cheering out of the corner of his eyes and blushed, clearly flattered by Peter’s enthusiasm. He climbed off the stage, handed off the mic to the next performer and went directly back to Peter.

“I guess you liked it,” Davy said, appearing at Peter’s side.

“David, that was amazing! You’re so talented! You should be a star by now!”

“Yeah, I know,” Davy sighed. “It’s tough out there, mate. I just gotta keep working.”

“Well, I’ll come and watch you perform anytime,” Peter said with a huge smile. “I can’t wait to tell people I knew Davy Jones before he became famous!”

Davy laughed and gave Peter a playful shove. “You’re bloody crazy. Well, I suppose I should get back to work before Wendy rips my ‘ead off.” He jerked his head to the lady who yelled at him before, who was glaring at Davy with beady eyes.

“And I should probably eat my burger,” Peter frowed. It had been sitting there untouched for 10 minutes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Davy asked as he walked away.

“Can’t wait!” Peter called, shoving french fries in his mouth. “See you later, David!”

Davy gave a small wave before he disappeared into the kitchen. Peter blissfully ate his meal, paid the extremely overpriced sum and took his time strolling through Times Square. It had been a whirlwind two months, but he had experienced more in these eight weeks than in his first 22 years of life in Connecticut. His parents were always holding him back from doing what he truly wanted to do, and he finally felt free of their control. He was making a good living as a musician on his own. He had found a place to live on his own. And now he was going to be renting his very first apartment with a total stranger! Peter’s greatest gift had always been his ability to get along with people, but he was afraid that wouldn’t be the case once he left his hometown. But there he was, making instant friends with just about everyone he came across. He had talked to Davy for a total of 10 minutes and it already felt like they were old friends. He couldn’t wait for Davy to come and see him play tomorrow. Davy seemed to like him enough already, but Peter knew that music was going to be the bridge that permanently intertwined their lives. 

After all his searching, he had finally found his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things:  
> -the details here are a cross of real-life things and show-verse things. obviously, peter's greenwich village escapades and his CT upbringing are real, but the way i write the events unfolding are clearly fiction.  
> -all the cafes mentioned either still exist or did exist in real life. researching names of 1960s greenwich village nightclubs is a lot harder than it sounds.  
> -if you've never seen/heard of stardust diner, i recommend looking it up to get a good idea of its vibe and what it looks like inside. it's kind of hard to describe and i got lazy lmao. in real life, the diner is a bit of a paradox: it's a bona fide tourist trap since it's right in the middle of the theater district and people who actually live in new york don't really go there. but it actually is a real breeding ground/halfway house for insanely talented Broadway professionals and it's extremely difficult to get a job there (you actually need to audition). the experience of having servers belt out show tunes while taking your milkshake order is actually very cool, so it's worth at least one visit in your lifetime. the diner itself didn't actually open until the late 80s, but since this is the monkeeverse, there are no rules.


	6. The rain...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for some homophobic language and light drinking. this chapter has some elements to it that i'm entirely not used to writing about, so i hope it's alright.

“You two really hit it off, huh?”

It was the next morning, and Peter couldn’t stop talking about Davy. Steve found it amusing. Benny found it annoying.

“Did we ever! Benny, I can’t thank you enough.”

Benny rolled his eyes from the couch. “No kiddin’. You’ve thanked me 10 times in the last five minutes.” His Long Island accent always made him sound more angry than he was.

“Did I tell you guys how talented he was?”

“Yes,” both guys said in unison.

“What about his nice brown hair?”

“Yes.”

“What about --”

Peter stopped when Steve put his hand on his shoulder. “We get it, man,” he smiled. “You like Davy.”

“Maybe a little  _ too _ much,” Benny muttered, flipping a page in his book.

“Sorry,” Peter frowned. “I’m just really excited. I’ve never had my own place before!”

“What, our lovely abode wasn’t up to ya standuhds?” Benny said sarcastically as he pushed his reading glasses up his nose.

“You haven’t had to sleep in the closet for the last two months,” Steve reminded him.

“That was his choice!”

“Fellas, please,” Peter said, hopping off the counter and moving to the couch. “I’ll calm down once I see him again tonight.”

“OOOOOOH!” Benny teased. “Peter’s got a date with  _ Davy!  _ Dreamy Davy! I bet that kid’s actually a poof.”

“Benny! What the hell! Quit it,” Steve said, pushing Benny. The two wrestled on the couch and Peter just laughed.

“Man, I’ll miss you guys,” Peter said.

“You won’t miss Benny. He’s an asshole,” Steve said, half-joking, as he took one more swipe at him.

Benny shrugged and picked up his book. “I cannot deny this.”

“You… you guys will come visit me, right? At my new place?”

Steve gave him a look. “Jesus, Peter, you’re not moving to freakin’ California!”

“You haven’t even found a place yet,” Benny added. “You could be right next door for all we know.”

“I know, I know! I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Steve said reassuringly. “It’s so nice to see you so happy, buddy.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but found he didn’t quite know what to say. Peter was  _ always _ happy. Even when he wasn’t, he was at least good at making people think he was. Was he really so down in the dumps before that he seemed… upset? Did he upset his friends and he didn’t even realize it?

“I think you broke ‘im,” Benny laughed, noticing Peter’s paralyzed expression.

“You know Pete. He’s thinking. Let him think,” Steve dismissed Benny’s joke, grabbing a soda from the fridge and slinking into his bedroom. 

Peter  _ was  _ thinking, about a lot of things. He was excited to see Davy. He was excited for his gig tonight. But he was sad about the prospect of moving out of Steve’s place. He was sad about the one good thing in his life changing. But Peter so badly wanted to embrace the change. Who knows what this endeavor with Davy will lead to? Peter couldn’t even imagine what life had in store for him. That was the best part about life -- two months ago, he was still living at home and feeling stuck. He would have never imagined he’d end up where he was now. In two more months, he might not even be in New York anymore. And that thought, more than anything, excited Peter. His life was ever-changing, but it was all for the better. It was amazing that he even got to experience this in the first place.

“Any plans besides the big date tonight, Pete?” Benny asked, folding the small corner of his book and closing it.

Peter shrugged. “Not really. I’ll probably practice my set a bit before I go.”

“All you do is  _ practice _ . C’mon. We should go do something fun!”

“I don’t think our ideas of fun are the same, Benny,” Peter giggled. Benny was a textbook ladies’ man. He was tall and strong and worked out just about every day. He went clubbing every night, and not at the clubs Peter and Steve went to. He wasn’t Peter’s first choice of friend, but he came as a package deal with one of their other roommates, whom Steve had met when he first moved to New York. Peter had the ability to get along with everyone, though, so he barely minded it. Benny was a little disrespectful for his taste, but his moral conscience balanced it out by not hanging out with him all that much.

“You’re such a sissy,” Benny said with just enough bite to hurt. “Have you ever even kissed a girl, Pete?”

Peter flushed red. He didn’t care much for being tied down with romance, but he had certainly had his fun before. To Peter, the idea of sexual freedom meant freedom to  _ not  _ have sex just as much as it meant the other way around. He didn’t quite see the appeal of getting with someone just to get with them -- he’d rather build a meaningful, emotional connection first.

“Yes, I have,” Peter pouted. “Just because I don’t chase after chicks every night doesn’t mean I don’t know how to get with one.”

“Oh, you’re a wise guy, huh?” Benny nudged him a little too hard to be entirely playful. “Why don’t you ever come out, then?”

“I just told you, man, I don’t find it as fun as you do.”

Benny rolled his eyes and smiled. “You’re one crazy cat, Peter.” He sniffled and pretended to wipe away tears. “I’m gonna miss ya.”

“Okay, Benny,” Peter sighed. He forced a smile so Benny wouldn’t rag on him anymore than he already was. “I’ll miss you too, you brute.”

Benny gave Peter a noogie as he walked over to his jacket by the door. “You go do whatever you want.  _ I’m _ going to go enjoy my day.” He took a quick look outside and grabbed the umbrella that was propped up against the wall. He wiggled it at Peter to show he was taking it before shutting the door behind him.

“Well, there goes our only umbrella,” Peter muttered as he flopped back on the couch. He watched as the dark clouds began to roll in from the bay. “Gee,” Peter sighed, grabbing his banjo and tuning it up. “I really hope it doesn’t rain tonight.”

It didn’t just rain. It poured.

“Where the  _ hell  _ is Benny?!” Steve yelled, exasperated. Peter and their other roommates shrugged. Nobody wanted to go out in that rain. “Ugh. That shithead took our only umbrella to the god damn  _ club  _ or something.”

“It’s okay, the cafe is only a few blocks away. I’ll stay dry.”

Steve waved his hand at Peter. “Asshole should have known you needed it tonight.”

“Relax, man. He didn’t know it was gonna rain all day,” one of their roommates piped up.

“It’s fine, Steve. Really,” Peter used Steve’s gesture of good faith against him as he put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m not mad at him. For anything.” He stressed the last part. Steve sighed.

“You’re too good, Pete,” he smiled. He took the liberty of taking Peter’s raincoat off the coat rack. “Stay dry, okay?”

“I’m fine, mother!” Peter teased, putting his banjo on his back before slipping his coat on. Steve chuckled at how silly he looked.

“I make a great turtle, don’t I?”

Steve laughed. “The ugliest turtle I’ve ever seen.”

Peter flicked Steve on the arm before waving goodbye and gently closing the door. The rain wasn’t all that bad, considering Peter was able to walk under scaffolding and awnings. His brown-skinned shoes, though, were soaked through entirely. Guess it was time to go full hippie and play in bare feet.

He entered the cafe and was disappointed to find it half-empty. He knew it was because of the rain, but that just made his growing fear even bigger: Davy might not come.

He wouldn’t blame him if he decided to stay home. Sure, Davy could take the subway, but man… who actually wanted to do that? Peter was much too scared to even venture underground to see what it looked like.

“Peter! Glad you could make it,” the warm voice of the club owner, Henrietta, broke his thoughts.

“Hey Henri,” Peter smiled. “Boy, it’s like a monsoon out there.”

“I’ll say. April is our worst month of the year, and this is exactly why. But, hey. We still gotta give the people who are here a good show, right?”

“Right on,” Peter said, stepping up onto the small stage. He kept staring at the door, waiting for Davy to walk in. 

“Expecting someone?” Henri asked.

“Yeah, actually,” Peter blushed. “This guy, David.”

“A  _ guy _ , huh? Didn’t know you swung that way,” Henri winked.

“What? No, I--”

“It’s cool, man. I don’t mind.”

“Davy’s not a -- a  _ love interest!  _ He’s a potential roommate.”

“Oh,” Henri’s cheeks turned bright pink. “Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. When’s he supposed to get here?”

“I told him I start at 9. I don’t think he really understood the name of this place, though.”

Henri laughed. “If I had a dime for every time someone told me that, well, I wouldn’t need this cafe anymore!” She patted Peter’s back. “Have a good show, alright?”

Peter just nodded, refusing to tear his eyes away from the door. A few people trickled in and a few people stumbled in, clearly trying to get away from the increasingly-heavy rain outside. None of them were Davy. Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay.  _ Even if he doesn’t show up, you know where he works. _

Peter’s thoughts were broken by the bell jingling once again. This time, he broke into a wide grin.  _ I knew he’d show up _ .

“David!” he called from the stage, waving. Davy’s face immediately lit up when he caught sight of Peter’s dimpled smile. He shook out his umbrella and hustled to greet him.

“Man, it’s  _ pouring _ out there,” he said, running a hand through his damp hair.

“Did you… walk this whole way?”

Davy nodded. “I refuse to take the subway.”

“Me too. Man, I’m real glad you’re here. I know I said I’m here till midnight, but I don’t play for three hours straight. I switch on and off with a few people, so when I finish my first set we can talk!”

“Sounds good to me, mate. Where should I sit?”

Peter scanned the room and had no trouble finding empty tables. “Oh, anywhere. It’s usually not this empty.”

“Figured as much,” Davy said. His eyes landed on a nice table on the side of the room by a window and he sauntered off, making small talk with a few waitresses on his way.

It felt like a weight had been lifted off Peter’s shoulders. He  _ really  _ wanted this to go right. He was tired of being so dependent on Steve and the others for food and shelter. Peter had moved to New York to be independent, after all.

Davy took a seat, angling his chair so he had a perfect view of Peter on stage. He had heard of the American folk music scene, but it was never something he was interested in. He felt a little out of place with his bowl cut, striped shirt, Beatle boots and flared jeans, but nobody really noticed. Probably because they were high. Davy wondered if Peter was the type to smoke and get stoned every weekend. Maybe he was stoned right now? Maybe that’s why he seemed to be a little… off. It didn’t bother him, though. Peter was a funny guy who had taken the time and effort to seek out a stranger in the middle of a crowded diner. That alone made Davy want to give him a chance. 

“Alright alright al _ riiiiight _ ! Thank you all for comin’ out during this hurricane, we super appreciate it.” The crowd chuckled softly. “We’ve got another good lineup for you all tonight, starting with your favorite instrument guru, mister Peter Tork!”

Davy smiled and clapped politely as Peter took the stage, barefoot, sitting on a small stool in front of a single microphone. A few other cafe-goers cheered and stood up, causing Peter to give another dimpled grin as he plucked his strings a few times. Peter’s eyes flashed over to Davy, who was sitting with his legs crossed and a small smile on his face. Peter smiled back and began to play.

Davy didn’t expect to dig the music Peter was playing, but he was downright  _ amazing _ . He was so caught up in his mastery of the instrument that he didn’t even notice it was just him and his instrument -- no vocals. At the end of his banjo set, Davy felt a strange sense of pride at how many people were enjoying Peter’s performance. All of these people absolutely adored him, and Peter was choosing  _ Davy _ to be his roommate?

Davy was about to stand up and cheer, thinking Peter was done. Peter, however, disappeared into the shadows of backstage and reemerged with a keyboard. He was going to play piano too?

The answer to that, of course, was yes. Peter decided to go for a more blues-oriented piano set today, and he was a little surprised when a few customers got up and started to dance. He had never had anyone dance to his music before! He glanced over to Davy again, who wasn’t dancing, but he was tapping his foot and smiling. That was more than enough for Peter.

By the time he finished, nearly 45 minutes had gone by. He was only supposed to play for a half hour, but nobody had stopped him -- in fact, the act that was scheduled to perform after him  _ wanted _ him to keep going. Peter had reached a natural end, though, and he needed to save his energy for his guitar portion later. Right now, he wanted to talk to Davy.

Davy was disappointed when Peter got up and took a small bow. He wanted to keep listening to his sweet music. Peter wasn’t like Davy at all; no, he was so much better. He was a pure musician, and for those short 45 minutes, Peter had allowed the rest of the world to experience what went on in his head every day. His music seemed to tell a story, though Davy didn’t exactly know what that story was. He felt as if he had reached the destination of some grand journey he didn’t even know he was on.

“Mate, that was  _ incredible _ ,” Davy breathed as Peter took a seat across the little table. “I mean…  _ wow _ .”

Peter blushed. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“If anyone’s gonna be famous here, it’ll no doubt be you.”

Peter’s blush deepened. He didn’t know what to say.

“Alright, mate, how’re we gonna find a place?”

“Right,” Peter said, his eyes darting around the room. He spotted a folded newspaper on an empty table nearby and reached over to grab it. He unfurled the paper and flipped to the classifieds page.

“...this is your big plan?”

“When did I ever say I had a big plan?”

“I dunno! I figured you did, since you sought me out.”

Peter panicked for a second, wondering if there was an easier or better way to do this, but he couldn’t think of one. The last thing he wanted to do was make cold calls.

“We should just look for a place to sublet. That way we can change places easily if it’s no good.”

Davy considered this. He wasn’t quite sure why they would ever need to leave a place, but he didn’t really know how it all worked, especially in America. So he shrugged and deferred to Peter’s judgment.

“Alright.”

“Groovy!” Peter took a pen from his back pocket. “Look. This entire page is full of housing advertisements.”

The two boys took to scanning the page, silently enjoying the music and piping up when they found something interesting or cool.

“Look at this one! Says it has a rooftop patio,” Davy pointed.

“Circle it!” Peter said, handing him the pen. “Oh, look at this, David. This one’s got  _ two _ bedrooms!”

They didn’t realize it, but by the time they had went through the whole page, just about every single ad was circled. 

“...maybe we should be a little more selective,” Davy said, rubbing his neck. Peter hummed in agreement.

“What’s the most important thing to you?” Davy asked.

Peter thought for a moment. “Well, music, for sure. My friends, they’re important to me too--”

“ _ No _ , you loon! I mean for an  _ apartment _ !”

“Oh,” Peter giggled. “Uh… a bathroom?”

“My god,” Davy muttered, failing to hold back his amused smile. “No wonder you circled everything on this bloody page.”

“Hey, these are your circles too!” Peter pointed to some beautifully-drawn circles. Davy shrugged. “Okay, you got me. But this is  _ your  _ country! You know what’s best to look for.”

“I’ve never rented out my own place before,” Peter admitted. 

“Really?” Davy raised an eyebrow. “You seem quite independent.”

Peter felt an odd sense of flattery wash over him. He had no clue what he was doing, but he must have been doing  _ something  _ right if he came across as independent. Maybe he could finally start believing it for himself.

“You’re right,” Peter said, grabbing the pen. “Okay, look. We circled stuff that’s almost $250 a month. Can we even afford that?”

Davy looked at Peter, a little reluctant to share his monthly income. His main source of income was the diner, which only paid minimum wage. He had landed a couple background roles in small productions, and the people Davy had talked to said that they’ve been doing Broadway for years and can make as little as $2,500 per year. He hadn’t put much thought to financial stability when he moved across the pond, and he was afraid to admit that. To admit it made it real, and Davy refused to believe that a life of poverty was his reality.

Peter immediately picked up on Davy’s self-consciousness. “We definitely can’t,” he said, acting as if nothing was wrong. “Anything over $200 we’ll just go ahead and cross out.”

Once Peter was done eliminating the expensive places, that left about a quarter of the page untouched. 

“Much better,” Peter sighed, putting the pen down. “Okay. We need to think location.”

“Location. Right.”

“You work on Broadway.”

“Right.”

“I work down here in the Vil.”

“Right.”

“So, we need to find a place that’s in the middle.”

“Right. Where would that be?”

“Um.” Peter scanned the page. “Upper East Side, no… Brooklyn, oh, no… Soho, no… what about Chelsea?”

Davy shrugged. “You know it more than me, mate.”

“Right, right,” Peter muttered. He wasn’t the best at making decisions and he certainly wasn’t used to taking the lead on things. Davy seemed like the type of person who would do that. Peter had silently hoped  _ Davy _ would have a big plan.

“Chelsea is fine,” Peter said, scribbling through some more ads. “Okay. This is good, see? We’ve narrowed it down to… eight, nine, 10 places.”

“Ten places is still a lot.”

“Okay…” Peter was beginning to grow exasperated. This shouldn’t be  _ that _ difficult. “Here’s what I’ll do.” He wrote a list in the margin of the paper, listing each place from lowest price to highest. “The lowest is $65 per month and the highest is $155. We can start here,” he pointed to the $65 ad, “and end here,” he pointed to the $155 ad. “Dig?”

Davy nodded. “Great. Yeah. Real… real great.”

Peter laughed at Davy’s gigantic yawn. “Tired, huh?”

“Oh, you don’t even know.” Davy folded his arms on the table and dropped his head down. “I’ve been up since 4 a.m.”

“Four o’clock?! Davy, why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have made you come out so late.”

Davy waved his hand dismissively. “Nah. I wanted to see you play.”

“Well, I’m flattered, but I play plenty of places. You could have seen me anytime.”

Davy felt a pang of jealousy, but pushed it aside. “Don’t worry, mate. I’m… I’m fine.”

“Hey Peter,” one of the busboys interrupted them. “You’re on in 30. Figured you’d wanna get set up.”

“Thanks,” Peter smiled. “I should get ready for my next set. You… you don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to.”

Davy yawned again, causing Peter to do the same. “Nope. I’ll stay. I can’t miss the great Peter Tork play… well, whatever it is you play.”

“Okay,” Peter said, guilt dripping from his voice. “I’ll… be back soon.”

“Break a leg,” Davy smiled as Peter walked to the employees only door. Davy sighed. He almost regretted coming out so late, but Peter was so  _ excited _ about this that he didn’t want to let him down. Why he felt that way for someone he barely knew, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he couldn’t keep his eyes open for much longer.  _ A quick nap wouldn’t hurt… _

That quick nap lasted for almost two hours. Peter had noticed when he finished his first acoustic number and looked right at Davy, who was slumped over in his chair and resting his head on the table. He couldn’t even feel upset because he felt bad that he made Davy come out all this way. When Peter finally finished around 11:45, Davy was  _ still _ asleep, which was a testament to both how empty the place was and how tired he was. The cafe closed at 2 a.m., so Peter put his wet shoes next to his chair, ordered two cups of tea and read the paper while he waited for Davy to wake up.

Around 12:30 a.m., Davy began to stir, thoroughly confused as to where he was. Peter was in the middle of a crossword puzzle.

“...Pee’uh?”

Peter slowly put the paper down. Davy’s hair was half-sticking up, half-sticking to his face. 

“Good morning, David,” Peter said cheekily.

“Morning, what’s…  _ morning?!” _

“It’s 12:30 a.m. You slept through my second set.”

“Oh… oh man,” Davy pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m sorry, mate. What a lousy thing for me to do.”

“No, you’re tired and I made you come all the way down here. It’s my fault, if anything.”

Davy gave a bleary smile. “You’re too kind.” He sat up and stretched, letting out another big yawn. Peter jerked his head to Davy’s cup of tea, which had gone cold by now. Davy downed it in five seconds. “Is this place closed? Do we hafta leave?”

“No, it doesn’t close until 2. But we should get you home.”

Davy blinked. “We?”

“Yeah, man. I can’t let you walk back by yourself while you’re half asleep. I’m going with you.” Peter slipped into his moccasins, which were still damp.

“No, you don’t have… have to,” Davy said between more yawns.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were drunk. And some cop on the street isn’t gonna know any better. Come on,” Peter got up and went to Davy’s side of the table, helping him stand up. 

“Is this normal?”

“What, fallin’ asleep in a restaurant?”

“Are you always this tired?”

Davy shrugged. “Kind of. It doesn’t matter.”

_ It does matter _ , Peter thought, but knew better than to press further. 

“You boys headed home?” Henri smiled, leaning against a dirty broom.

“Yeah. He’s -- uh, we’re pretty tired.”

“Alright. You’re back on Wednesday?” Peter nodded. “Great. See you then, honey.”

“Bye, Henri,” Peter waved as he guided Davy out the door, grabbing his umbrella on the way. It was still raining, but it was more bearable than before. 

“Here,” Peter handed Davy the now-open umbrella.

“Why don’t you hold it? You’re taller.”

The two walked silently down the street, unsure of what to say. Truthfully, Davy was too tired to form a coherent sentence and Peter was feeling guilty, so neither of them wanted to disturb the other. Even in Davy’s tired state, he was still mindful of what was going on around him, so he began to grow increasingly uncomfortable at the amount of people who were staring at the two of them. Some people looked confused, some people looked intrigued and some people looked flat-out  _ pissed _ . It took his weary mind a bit longer than normal to catch up to what was happening, and it wasn’t until a group of young men began following them from a distance that his brain took the hint. It wasn’t an ordinary group of weird guys, though -- Davy recognized them, and they recognized him. He glanced up at Peter, who was off on his own world.  _ Shit. I can’t get him caught up in this _ . He instantly picked up the pace, which jolted Peter from his blissful thoughts.

“Davy?”

“Just got a sudden burst of energy. One of those post-nap things, I suppose.”

Peter nodded in acknowledgment. It was certainly sudden.

“David, you look like you’re on a mission.”

“Oh, I am. To get out of here as soon as possible,” Davy said bluntly, stealing glances over his shoulder. Peter looked back too, but he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

“What? Why? Are you alright? What are you looking at?”

Davy groaned. “How can you not--” he stopped himself. There was no way Peter had this problem. Why  _ would  _ he know? His eyes suddenly caught sight of a flashing neon-green sign a few blocks ahead. It looked like a club. 

“C’mon.” Against his better judgment, Davy grabbed Peter’s arm and began dragging him straight to the club. Peter was so surprised he couldn’t get a word of protest out. He soon realized what Davy was doing when they began to slow down in front of the club.

“A club? Davy, it’s past 1 and we’re soaking wet.” That was an exaggeration, of course, but their shoes were definitely damp and the fronts of their pants were wet where the umbrella couldn’t protect their steps. 

Davy shrugged and pushed the doors open, momentarily locking gazes with the leader of the pack behind them. He gave Davy a menacing stare that drained all the color from his face before slinking inside and shutting the door.

Peter immediately winced at the decibel level. The combination of hundreds of people talking and multiple jukeboxes playing gave him an instant headache.

“What the hell, man?” Peter shouted angrily. In this noise, it was like a whisper. “You need to get  _ home _ .”

“What I need is a  _ drink,”  _ Davy said, his eyes dark. Peter was stunned.

“What-- I don’t-- are you even old enough to drink?” he blurted.

Davy gave him a death glare. “I’m 19.”

“Fantastic, you can legally get shit-faced. But we’re not doing that right now.”

“You’re not my  _ dad _ , Peter.”

Peter felt a sudden burst of anger rise. It was such an unfamiliar feeling that he almost didn’t know what to do with it. “What-- I never said-- why are you acting like this all of a sudden!”

Davy balled his fists. “All of a sudden?! You’re the one who’s so dense you didn’t even see--”

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or is that  _ Peter fuckin’ Tork?!” _

Peter whipped around. His anger quickly melted to panic when he discovered who the voice belonged to.

“Who’s this?” Davy asked, shoving his way next to Peter.

“This is…”

“Benny,” he grinned lazily, extending his hand. Davy shook it for a brief moment. 

“Ah, Benny Carter. Valerie’s best friend’s sister’s--”

“No, not that again,” Peter groaned.

“Oh! You must be  _ Davy _ ,” Benny said with a wicked grin. “‘Ey, boys! Dreamy Davy’s here!”

Peter’s face turned redder than a lobster as a few of Benny’s drunken friends stumbled over to them. Davy was paralyzed.

“You know, the club for  _ fairies  _ is just a few blocks away!” one of his friends yelled, causing the group to erupt in laughter. Now it was Davy’s turn to match Peter’s embarrassment.

Peter, however, didn’t quite get the joke. He was always teased for being naive, but nobody had ever teased him for being gay. He liked to hang out with relatively clean-cut people; not that he hung out with a whole lot of people before moving to New York. His friends were just neighborhood friends who happened to be good kids. Peter was lucky. His friends made his otherwise sheltered life in Connecticut exciting. His parents never allowed him to stay out late or to branch out his friendship beyond the friendly confines of their quaint suburban street. Innocence wasn’t so much of a choice as it was a forced lifestyle. Most of the time, he was content with that -- his relative ignorance was one of the main reasons he was able to get along with people so well. He rarely allowed himself to become so self-aware that it turned into something self-deprecating -- and he had enough awareness to recognize this. He would rather stay in his own world, like he was used to, than worry about what other people had going on in theirs.

But in places like this, he wished he was anyone but himself.

“Now, now, don’t go assumin’ things. If Peter were queer, I’d know about it,” Benny slurred, slinging a heavy arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter winced and ducked away.

“I’m not queer,” he said firmly. He didn’t even feel comfortable saying the word.

“Isn’t that exactly what fags say?” one of Benny’s friends mumbled, causing the group to snigger.

“Oh, come off it, will ya?” Davy snapped. “We’re here to get a drink and look at birds. Come on, Peter.” Davy once again grabbed Peter by the arm, but Peter happily went along. Anything to get away from Benny.

“Birds…?” 

Davy staggered to the counter and flopped on a stool, waving his hand desperately to signal his desire to get drunk and get drunk  _ fast _ .

“David, what’s going on?” Peter demanded, sitting next to him. “We need to get out of here.”

“Nah, mate,” Davy said, weakly smiling at the bartender when he plopped a few shot glasses in front of him. Before Peter could even react, he was pouring liquid down his throat like it was room temperature water.

“Davy!” Peter gasped. He would have never pegged this kid to be an expert shot-taker.

“Oh, look at ‘er, Peter,” Davy pointed to a blond girl in a miniskirt and a cropped shirt. “Now _ she _ looks wonderful.”

“I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but I don’t--”

Peter was left hanging as Davy hopped off his stool, setting down the three empty shot glasses and making a beeline for the group of dancing girls that featured his pick. Peter could only watch in horror as he flirted with four or five girls  _ at the same time _ . And the girls were loving it.

“Hm, I think I had Davy pegged wrong, Pete.” Benny had taken Davy’s place on the stool while Peter was distracted. “Seems like the ladies love ‘im.”

“I…” Peter tried, but he didn’t know what to say. Benny wasn’t even wrong -- the girls  _ did _ love him. They were laughing like hyenas at just about every word that came out of his mouth, which angered Peter to no end. But why? Why was he angry? Davy had every right to go do what he wants. If he wanted to flirt with a bunch of girls, that’s his bag. Why should Peter care? He wanted to do something about this, but he didn’t know what, so he just sat on the stool and kept his eyes trained on Davy. He watched the way he smiled when a girl handed him a glass filled with who-knows-what and downed it within seconds. He watched the way his hand snaked around a girl’s body when she got close, pulling her hips into his. He watched the way his face seemed to soften into a hypnotized daze when he locked eyes with someone. He watched the way he danced -- shimmying his hips, playfully bumping up against the girls, moving his arms and bobbing his head the exact same way he did when he performed. This was all a performance to him. An act. Davy was a one-man show, and all chicks got in for free. Peter didn’t know what he was feeling. Jealousy? Maybe. Jealous that Davy was adored in ways Peter never had been? Or jealous that these drunk chicks were getting Davy’s attention and not him? Peter had really thought there had been a connection between him and Davy. He felt like he could relate to him in ways he couldn’t with anybody else, but he supposed that was the music connection more than anything else. Maybe he was trying to force through a relationship that wasn’t really there. It was all so  _ random _ , the way this was unfolding. Peter and Davy crossing paths was a one-in-a-million anomaly to begin with; for Peter to think this was anything beyond a coincidence was foolish. 

Peter coughed as he abruptly stood up, catching Benny’s attention.

“Where you goin’ Pete? Night’s still young!” Benny took a big gulp of his colorful drink.

“Home,” Peter grumbled, not even thinking of entertaining that drunken mess right now. He didn’t realize he was still carrying Davy’s umbrella as he stormed out the door, not even sparing a glance back to the dance floor where Davy was surrounded by droves of women.

“‘Ey, Pee’uh!” Davy shouted through the crowd. He couldn’t see above the sea of heads and he realized his voice wasn’t carrying over, either.

“‘Scuse me ladies, I have to go find my tall, blond friend.” Davy flashed a winning smile and the girls giggled, drunkenly excited to meet someone new.

“Pee’uh! Where are you, ya bloody--” he stopped when his eyes laid on Benny, sitting next to an empty stool.

“I think you upset poor ‘ol Peter!” Benny teased, finishing the last of his drink and immediately ordering a beer. “He huffed on home. This isn’t really his scene. Maybe he went to the homosexual bar without you!”

Davy was momentarily snapped from his thoughts. Why couldn’t he have just let Peter take him home? He was being paranoid. Those guys would have  _ never _ caught up to them. Now, Peter was gone and Davy was drunk, losing the ability to make coherent decisions quicker than the seconds that went by. The more he drank, though, the less guilty he felt. And the more girls he flirted with, the better he felt about  _ himself _ . He was already a naturally flirty guy, which went hand-in-hand with his talents as an actor and a performer. In England, all the girls couldn’t get enough of him. He was like all four Beatles wrapped into one accessible package. He found that girls flocked to him no matter where he went. He found it overwhelming at times, but it was much better to at least entertain them than ignore them. 

And he found American girls hard to ignore.

“Davy! Oh Daaaaavyyyy! Where did you go!” he heard a female voice shout from somewhere on the dance floor. He let out a heavy sigh. He couldn’t leave them hanging.

Davy quickly ordered a beer and chugged half of it down before making his way back to the dance floor. He found himself hoping Peter was doing alright.

Peter, though, couldn’t tell if it was the rain making his face wet or his tears.  _ I think I had Davy pegged wrong _ . Of all the things Benny had said, those words rang the loudest. He wasn’t the only one feeling that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important note: new york was one of the only states pre-1980s where the drinking age was 18. in california, it's always been 21. so for now, davy is legal!


	7. The park...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for abuse and homophobic language. italics indicate a flashback

There were a lot of things unpleasant about Davy’s life. He had made a haphazard decision to move to an entirely different country under the guise that he could hit it big. It had only been half a year, but he had barely managed to land background roles in minor productions. His grandfather constantly phoned him, which couldn’t have been cheap, just to remind him of the same thing over and over again: _be successful or you’re coming back home_. He got picked on for being a short, cute British boy on Broadway -- most people boiled down those characteristics to make one distinct assumption about him. The group of guys who would beat him senseless just about every night didn’t care that the girls seemed to love Davy. They still called him a queer.

Despite all this, nothing was more unpleasant than the shrill sound of his alarm clock every single morning.

It went off at 4 a.m. now. This was partly because Davy wanted to cram as many auditions into a day as possible. He thought he was going to be the only lunatic to show up for a tryout at 5:30 a.m., but he soon discovered that Broadway was so chock-full of crazies that he was considered one of the normal ones -- except when it came to his morning run. It was the first thing he did every day. It was the only time he could melt away into a different world and focus on something else besides his turmoils; of course, acting had the same effect, but he wasn’t doing much of that these days. 

Davy had been warned by his grandfather that America was dangerous -- _especially_ New York. He wasn’t wrong, either. But, though some very painful trials and tribulations, Davy discovered that 4 a.m. was something of a sweet spot. Unless a store was open 24 hours, it usually closed at 2 or 3 a.m. and reopened around 6 or 7. The city began to stir with the sun around 5 a.m., with people either getting ready to open their store or getting the jump on a morning commute. That left some dead space between the night-owls returning home and the early-birds waking up. Even bullies have to get a good night’s sleep. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t encounter his fair share of weirdos, but as long as he jogged around the outskirts of Central Park instead of through it, he was alright. It was dark enough that he could stay relatively invisible. He had heard the horror stories of people being mugged, jumped and killed while they were out either too early in the morning or too late at night, but rarely did the police reports identify the time of day in those cases at 4 a.m. Plus, it gave him enough time to shower, make himself a nice breakfast and tackle the day stress-free.

Well. Relatively stress-free.

He used to like auditions -- no, he used to _love_ them. Even amid a slew of rejections, he used to enjoy the process of learning a new script or a new dance. He loved meeting new people, whether those people be the casting directors, fellow actors or their parents. Davy had given up on school to focus on his acting, and with a less-than-stable home life, it was the perfect outlet. The wild success he experienced in minor stage productions back in England fueled his pride immensely. He didn’t necessarily think he was better than everyone, but it gave him enough confidence to believe he could conquer America -- and finally be free of his grandfather’s uptight lifestyle. Davy’s mom had died when he was young and his dad, not believing he was fit to raise a child alone, dropped him off at his grandfather’s one day and that was that. Davy hadn’t seen his dad in over 10 years, and he knew he never would again. Davy loved his grandfather, he really did, but he wasn’t cut out for the prim and proper lifestyle. He wanted to be famous. He wanted to be adored by people and bring joy into their lives. Luckily, those things came hand-in-hand with success, which is all Davy’s grandfather cared about. 

But it wasn’t that simple.

He had only known success in England. He couldn’t touch it with a 100-foot-pole in America. He didn’t understand. Was it him? No, it couldn’t be. He _knew_ he was charismatic and charming. Some of the other blokes who tried out for spots in a production wouldn’t know talent if it smacked them across the face. Yet, at the end of the day, Davy was right there with them, wallowing empty-handed outside the stage. The one saving grace was getting the job at Stardust, because he had heard how difficult the audition process was to get hired there. He had landed roles in minor productions, sure. But that wasn’t the big stage Davy craved. It wasn’t the spotlight. 

Every day was the same. He got up at 4 a.m., lazed around in bed for 10 minutes, and finally changed into running gear around 4:15. By 4:20, he was out the door and zipping around his usual route. Davy had no trouble with his stamina, but to keep himself motivated, he would go into his mind and pretend he was the star of the most popular production in America. Pretending he was successful almost made him feel like he was. 

Most days, his runs lasted about 30 minutes. But on days like today, he pushed an hour. When he got in the groove of a good fantasy, he didn’t want it to stop. It was one of those things where he couldn’t even remember if this was the first, second or third time he rounded through Columbus Circle.

When he finally arrived back at his shared apartment around 5:30, Valerie was awake and making breakfast.

“You took longer than normal,” she said, flipping an egg high into the air and catching it with the pan.

“Show-off,” Davy muttered as he stripped his sweatshirt off. “Yeah, I got a lot on me mind.”

“I don’t know what’s worse, you standing here shirtless or being obnoxiously British.”

“Oh, love, you know this is a good look on me,” Davy smiled slyly, gesturing up and down his bare chest.

“Yuck,” she teased, setting a fried egg down on a piece of toast. “You know this is why I’m kickin’ you out, right?”

“Don’t remind me,” Davy sighed, flopping down onto the couch. “You know, it’s very rude to kick me out _and then_ rub it in.”

Valerie shrugged, hiding her smile. “It’s also very rude when you bring back a random girl in the middle of the night.”

“Point taken,” Davy said, sitting up when she placed a plate of food in front of him.

“Have you found a roommate yet?”

“If I found a roommate, trust me, you’d be the first to know,” Davy said with a mouthful of egg.

“Well, I could try talking to Doug again--”

“Please, no, do _not_ talk to Doug,” Davy rolled his eyes. “That bloke’s off his rocker, I’ll tell ya.”

“Y’know, all you ever do is complain, _especially_ about Doug. You shouldn’t be picky with these things.”

“Yeah, but I _am_.” Davy didn’t know how else to defend himself. Doug was weird. He didn’t like Doug. Wasn’t that enough justification?

Valerie sighed. Trying to change Davy’s mind after it was already made up was like trying to… well, Valerie had run out of metaphors.

“Your play opens in a week, right?”

“Yessir,” Valerie nodded. “It’s crunch time now.” Valerie was a lighting technician, so she was able to find work a little easier than Davy. Davy had always had a negative perception of the behind-the-scenes work; to him, it was only reserved for people who weren’t talented enough actors, so they had to resort to plan B. It wasn’t until he met Valerie that his whole perception of that changed. 

_“You know, you keep asking me out, yet you give me these looks that make me think you’re not all that interested in what I do.”_

_Davy was puzzled. “How do you figure?”_

_“Well,” Valerie said, jumping down from her ladder. “You’ve got this uptight British thing going on, which is way more obnoxious than it is cute. And don’t think I didn’t hear you when they offered you a chance to be on the production crew and you refused because it’s ‘just a bunch of buggers who like to get off by playing with wood.’”_

_Davy gulped. He didn’t think anyone had heard that._

_“Yeah. It’s more than just dismissive glances,” she said, her Brooklyn accent growing increasingly thick. “And I don’t even know why you thought that was a good idea to say to the production manager.”_

_Davy shrugged. “I was mad.”_

_“Mad that shit’s not goin’ your way, huh? Yeah. You’re not special,” Valerie mumbled, crossing her arms and glaring at Davy. Davy seemed to buckle underneath her gaze, unsure of how to retaliate. Girls never usually came on him this strong._

_“Huh,” Valerie huffed a laugh. “You must have never met a girl from Brooklyn.”_

_Davy shook his head._

_“...ugh,” Valerie ran a hand through her hair. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you want to take me out so badly? Because my hair is long? Or my ass looks really good in these jeans?”_

_“Well-- yes,” Davy blurted, quickly covering his mouth. Valerie just smirked. “But…”_

_“...but what?”_

_“...you’re the only one who talks to me,” Davy admitted. “Nobody ‘round here wants a bloody thing to do with me.”_

_Valerie’s face softened and she uncrossed her arms. “Look. I know how it is. You’re clearly not from around here and it’s kind of a culture shock.”_

_“You’re tellin’ me,” Davy mumbled._

_“It was even a culture shock for me, between boroughs. Manhattan’s all… fancy-schmancy. Broadway is the epicenter for that shit. I’m… some Spanish girl from Brooklyn. I’m not really supposed to be here, either.”_

_“Then why are you?”_

_The corners of Valerie’s mouth turned upward. “Same reason you’re here. I like what I do, and I’m damn good at it.”_

_“You like… rigging lights?”_

_“It’s more than that,” she said, jerking her head behind her. Davy followed her deeper backstage. “It’s not just turnin’ a switch on and off. It’s engineering. You gotta know what kind of mood the lighting will convey. You gotta know how the angles of the shadows will change the meaning of a performance. There’s as much art to this as there is singin’ a song and dancing around to it.”_

_“Wow. I never thought of it that way.”_

_“Most people don’t,” Valerie said quietly, hands on her hips. She couldn’t stop herself from stealing glances at Davy._

_“Let me show you a few things,” she said suddenly, taking his arm and dragging him around the set. For the entire mini-tour, Davy didn’t say a word. He just listened._

_“I’ve only been doin’ this for a few years, which still means I’m a rookie. I barely know what I’m doin, but I know I’m having fun doin’ it.”_

_Davy pondered if he should ask his next question, but he was nothing if not persistent. “So how’s a girl from Brooklyn become a lighting engineer?”_

_Valerie smiled. “Why don’t you buy me some coffee and find out?”_

Valerie was never romantically interested in Davy; he wasn’t remotely her type. But he made for a damn good friend and a good roommate -- that is, until Davy started making a habit of bringing girls back to his place and making Valerie pretend _she_ was the guest instead of him.

“ _Fine_ , I won’t talk to Doug,” Valerie sighed. “ _But_ . If you don’t at least _find_ someone to room with, I am slingin’ you over my shoulder and dropping you out on the sidewalk.”

“Alright, alright!” Davy cried. “Ugh. You’ve really lost the plot, haven’t ya?”

“Stop saying things you know I don’t understand, you weirdo,” Valerie said sternly, flicking Davy on the side of the head before getting up and walking to her room. “I’ll see you later, pipsqueak.”

“Bye--” Davy started, but the loud _slam_ of the door cut him off. Valerie wasn’t kidding -- she really _would_ physically kick Davy out if he didn’t leave on his own soon. 

“Just another bloody thing I have to worry about,” Davy muttered. He put his dirty plate in the sink and got himself ready for another long day.

* * *

All of his auditions were flops.

That result wasn’t exclusive to today, but it hurt nonetheless. He had recently completed a part in a small production, where he played the titular character. It wasn’t a blockbuster by any means, but it was his first real role and he did a great job with it. That role is what gave him the proper connections to land an audition and a job at Stardust, so for once, he couldn’t complain. Davy auditioned for back-to-back-to-back-to-back plays, but he was told the same thing every time: _You’re just not what we’re looking for_ . Either every major casting director was reading off the same script or they were in cahoots against Davy. _Is it the British thing?_ He thought that would have been an advantage. _They’re not still mad about the whole colonization thing, are they?_

It didn’t matter, though. Another perk to his diner job was that he didn’t have time to dwell on his failures. Every night at the diner was like an audition on its own: the more the customers liked him, the more management would notice, which exponentially raised his chances at being recommended for a role. Plus, the diner was the only exclusive thing he was a part of. It was easy to feel confident when he knew others were actually jealous of him.

“David. You’re late.” His boss, Wendy, was waiting right there for him as he entered the back room.

“No, I’m not--” he started before catching a glimpse of the clock. He sighed.

“Is _one minute late_ really a big deal?”

“Yes!” Wendy cried, as if he was the stupidest man on earth. “Hurry up. Table 18 is waiting.”

Davy scrambled to tie his vest on and scrambled out the door. He would typically work for about 45 minutes before performing a musical number, and then he would sing in half-hour intervals. It was a Monday night, so it was less crowded than usual; and since most of the wait staff had actual productions to worry about, Davy had to do more singing tonight than normal. But he had no problem with that. He could get a little more intimate with the customers, which significantly enhanced their experience. He found that picking out a pretty girl and singing to her for a few moments made her more inclined to not only leave him a good tip, but a good recommendation, too.

“You’re doing great, Jones,” one of his co-workers said to him as they refilled drinks. “You got some extra pep in that step tonight.”

Davy shrugged. “No more pep than normal, mate.”

But he _did_ have some extra pep. He didn’t realize it, but it was his day of failures compounded with Valerie giving him a two-week roommate deadline that caused him to melt into his performances at Stardust. It was magical, when he let everything go. His co-workers noticed it. His boss noticed it. The customers noticed it.

Even the loiterers outside noticed it.

Davy was glowing when his shift ended around 1 a.m. His day had not started out well, but it was sure on track to end well. All he had to do was walk 10 blocks back home and he could get those blissful 3 hours of sleep. 

He was whistling when he walked out the side door, zipping his jacket up and shoving his hands in his pockets. He barely made it to the street corner before a familiar gruff voice spoke up.

“You’re done a lil’ late tonight, huh?”

Davy froze. He had almost forgotten.

_The first night it happened was the worst night of Davy’s life. It had started out as a good day. He auditioned for his first mid-major production and was offered a callback. He did his first performance at the diner and he had knocked it out of the park. The callback was the next afternoon, so he was in no rush to get home. To celebrate his sudden turn of good luck, he was going to sleep in and take a break from running._

_He knew something was off right away. He didn’t know what, though. Maybe it was because it was 2 a.m. and snowing. But after chatting with a co-worker outside for a few minutes, he kept a steady pace on his walk home until he turned his head around to see a trio of tall, burly men following him. He gave them the benefit of the doubt for another block before whipping around, ready to confront them._

_“Can I ‘elp you blokes with something?” he called. It took a minute for them to catch up, but once they arrived, Davy immediately regretted stopping. They were a foot taller than him and at least twice his body weight. And there were three of them._

_“Aw, that’s real cute, fellas. He thinks he can help us!” the three men, no older than their mid-20s, burst out laughing._

_“Wh-what the bloody hell do you want?” Davy couldn’t keep his voice from quivering._

_“Oh! He’s scared! Hah, we scared him!” they erupted into more fits of laughter. Davy felt like he was in the middle of a terribly-scripted movie._

_“We don’t take kindly to shorties like you invadin’ our country,” one of them said. Internally, Davy rolled his eyes, but externally, he was shaking._

_“And when the invader in question is a fag,” another interjected. Davy didn’t notice, but they were slowly backing him down a dimly-lit street._

_“You must be joking!” Davy yelled, but after the three of them began laughing again, his face went hot and he shut his mouth._

_“Only fags work at that diner. It’s a fact.”_

_“Yeah. Just a bunch of hippies and queers in there.”_

_“I’m not--” Davy tried, but he was rudely cut off by a light shove. He stumbled back into a wall and tried to grab the brick for support._

_“Shut up!”_

_“I ‘aven’t done anything to ya. Leave me alone, you wankers!” Davy mustered enough courage to shout._

_“...wanker, huh? Never heard of that one.”_

_“But I bet it ain’t no term of endearment.”_

_The three nodded in unison._

_“We should show ‘im what we do to people who insult our intelligence.”_

_They were not kind to Davy, both physically and emotionally. Davy tried his hardest to fight back, he really did. He managed to land a few blows here and there, but he was better off punching the brick wall surrounding him. In a matter of minutes, he was on the ground, his head ringing and his lip bleeding. He took a gasp of air before a thorough kick in the stomach knocked it all out again._

_“We better not catcha around here again,” he faintly heard one of them say. “Or else.”_

_Davy sat on the ground for 10 minutes, shivering and trying to pop some of his fingers back into place. He could barely stand up from the sting of the cold and the bruises forming all over his body. He stumbled home and barely got a wink of sleep. The callback didn’t go well, and despite Valerie’s constant questioning, Davy never admitted what was going on. He began to get up earlier every day to avoid his problems and stumble home late at night. His growing paranoia about being out alone drove him to nightclubs and bars, where he would be guaranteed to walk home with a pretty girl every night._

“What do you want.” Davy said flatly.

“Oh, you know the routine by now, _Jones.”_ He was met with a rough shove.

Davy’s eyes went wide as he got his footing. “...’ow do you know my name?”

“Maybe you should take your nametag off next time, idiot.”

Davy looked down in horror. His nametag was sticking out at the top of his jacket.

“Are all fags this stupid?” one of them asked, lurking in the shadows between buildings.

Davy’s blood boiled. Tonight was a good night. Tonight had went well. He couldn’t let these meatheads ruin it for him.

Tonight, he’d fight back.

“Say, fellas. I’m gettin’ bored of the same old routine,” Davy said lightly, dancing around on the balls of his feet. He relaxed demeanour instantly caught the guys off-guard. “You punch me in the face, I cry out in pain, blah blah blah. Isn’t this getting quite boring?”

The trio exchanged shocked looks. “Uh…”

“It’s alright, I already know the answer. Why don’t we try something new?”

He received blank stares.

“Okay, I’ll explain,” he chided, weaving in between the men. “I’ll throw the first punch, and then if you can catch me, you can do whatever you want. Deal?”

“What the fuck are you--” 

Before he could finish, Davy gave him a swift kick in the groin and took off in the opposite direction. He slumped to the ground but found an ounce of strength to point to Davy running away, and his two cronies began sprinting after him. Even with their height advantage, Davy was craftier and speedier. Davy was an actual runner, while these guys were like the brick walls who played American football. Davy nimbly slipped in between people, while the other guys found it hard to run five feet without bodying an innocent pedestrian. Needing to make an escape, Davy jumped over a small concrete wall and ran into a park. He found a dimly-lit section and pressed his back against a tree, panting heavily.

He waited there for 15 minutes, his breath hitching every time he heard someone else’s voices. He was 90% sure that his plan wasn’t going to work. Somehow, he managed to evade the meatheads.

“Davy?”

Davy yelped and jumped a foot in the air.

“...Val?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I should ask you the same,” Davy said cautiously, his eyes adjusting to the figure in front of him. “What are you doing out so late?”

“It’s the final week of rehearsals. You know how it is.”

Davy nodded, nervously looking around. “But… this park isn’t on the way home.”

“I know,” she said. “I like to take walks here after a stressful day.”

“Oh. Didn’t know that,” Davy said, a bit distracted.

Valerie rolled her eyes, but Davy’s panicked expression wasn’t lost on her.

“Okay, back to you, pipsqueak. Why are you hiding behind a tree?”

“I…” Davy started, but the words got lost somewhere between his throat and his lips. _Every night I get beat up because a bunch of idiots think I’m queer_. He hardly wanted to think it, much less say it out loud.

“Is someone giving you trouble?”

Davy gave her a look, a mix of _how the hell do you know?_ and _leave me alone._

“Davy.” Valerie almost exclusively called him pipsqueak, so saying his name caught his attention rather quickly. “I know what’s goin’ on. It’s okay.”

“How-how would you know?” 

“Are you kiddin’? I grew up in Brooklyn. Getting beat up is a rite of passage.”

There was a beat of silence. Valerie knew Davy wanted to say something.

“Bet ya didn’t get beat up for bein’ a poof.”

“A what?”

“A poof. Poofter. Queer,” Davy’s voice was impossibly small.

Valerie’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I didn’t know--”

“That’s the thing! I’m not! Everyone just seems to think I am.”

“Well, you work on Broadway,” she muttered. 

Davy shot her a look, but softened. She was right.

“Come here,” she said suddenly, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to a bench. This bench happened to be under a bright light and in the middle of the park. “It’s fine. Nobody’s around.”

Davy nervously took a seat.

“How long has this been happenin’?”

“...I dunno. A few weeks.”

“Were you ever gonna tell me?”

Davy paused. He didn’t want to lie. 

“No,” he admitted. “I was… just kinda hoping it’d go away.” 

“Idiots like that _never_ go away,” she said bitterly. “They’ll always be around. Always pickin’ on people they know can’t fight back.”

“So, what? What do I do about it then?”

Valerie cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I said _you don’t_ , Davy. Trying to fight back against those guys is a death wish. Trust me. I would know.”

Valerie suddenly became very interested in her shoes and she wrung her hands so hard they started to turn white. Davy didn’t have to ask. 

“It never goes away because the world is full of shitty people,” she said, finally turning her gaze upward. “Full of shitty people with shitty opinions. Get rid of one of those guys, three more take their place. But you have to persevere. You have to find the right people to protect you. And it’s okay to admit you need protection. Took me way too long to figure that one out,” she said morosely, shaking her head. “Find people who like you for _you_. I don’t wanna inflate your ego any more than it already is, but you’re a good person, Davy. When you admitted to me that day that nobody gave a shit about you… that’s when I knew you were different. Nobody wants to admit they’re unwanted. Being alone is scary, but admittin’ you’re alone is even worse.” She looked straight up through the trees, her eyes twinkling in the gleam of the moonlight. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about getting picked on. Everyone gets picked on. Your character lies in how you choose to respond to it.”

Valerie sucked in a deep breath, waiting nervously for Davy to say something.

“...that’s… wow. I, uhm.” Davy was having trouble collecting his thoughts. More than anything, he was shocked by Valerie’s eloquence.

Valerie laughed softly. “Yeah. Bet you didn’t expect me to go all Shakespeare on you, huh?”

Davy had to laugh. “And here I thought I was the actor.”

A natural silence engulfed them.

“So, you’re saying... instead of kicking the meatheads in the groin, you want me to just… let them beat me up?”

“No. Of course you can punch them in the dick. Just… don’t think it’s gonna solve the problem. If you worry about getting rid of them, or tryin’ to prove you’re not what they say you are, you’ll never accomplish anything. They only hear what they wanna hear.”

Davy pondered this. Was he so worried about his assailants that it was leaking into his auditions?

“Fight back to stay alive. But you gotta worry about yourself too, pipsqueak. As in, taking runs at 4 a.m. every morning is batshit crazy and you gotta stop.”

Davy laughed nervously. “It ‘elps me clear me head.”

“Yeah, not at 4 in the god damn morning it doesn’t. Going out that early is even more dangerous than leaving the diner when you do.”

Davy opened his mouth to retaliate but couldn’t come up with a good defense. This probably wasn’t a good time to admit he checked the time on police reports to see when people commit their crimes.

“Let’s… let’s just go home, alright?” he finally said, standing up. “I don’t want to be out here any longer.”

Valerie sighed, putting a gentle hand on Davy’s shoulder and giving him a small smile. “Alright.”

* * *

Valerie’s words played in Davy’s head all night. _Fight back to stay alive_ . He was pretty sure he could handle that. _It’s okay to admit you need protection_ . He was much less sure he wanted to tackle that one. _Find people who like you for you_. That one seemed to trip him up. That was what he did… right? His friends back in England liked him… they liked acting with him… they liked going to his cast parties… 

Davy fell asleep before he could dwell on it any further. Either by coincidence or sheer determination, he slept through his alarm for the first time ever and didn’t wake up until it was almost noon. When he finally came to, he barely even cared that he missed his run when he remembered what Valerie said. Maybe he _was_ a little crazy.

He was about to head out to an audition when the phone rang. It was a casting director from one of the plays he had auditioned for yesterday, and they wanted him for a callback tomorrow afternoon! He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but this was his first bit of good news in weeks. So he decided that today, he would skip the auditions he planned to go to and stay just relax inside until he had to go to work.

Davy was remarkably good at accomplishing nothing when he put his mind to it. He enjoyed being out and about, but there was something magical about sitting inside on a gross day and watching TV for eight hours straight. He was even about to fall asleep when he remembered he had a job.

He was surprised when a fellow waitress tapped on his shoulder while he was taking a breather before his next performance.

“Hey, uh, some guy is looking for you.”

Davy tensed up. They wouldn’t dare… would they?

“S-some guy?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Cute face, blond hair.”

Davy relaxed. That definitely was _not_ one of them.

“Do you know him? He didn’t really sound like he knew you.”

Davy wracked his brain. He had crossed paths with plenty of blond actors with cute faces, but there were never any significant interactions. 

“No, but if he’s looking for me, I oughta see what he has to say, right?” Davy stood up and brushed his pants off. “Maybe he wants me to star in a big movie.”

“I doubt it,” the waitress rolled her eyes as Davy brushed past her.

Of course, the blond guy wasn’t a movie producer. But he _was_ a friend of Valerie’s best friend’s sister’s cousin’s friend’s friend, and he was really sweet. Right away, Davy knew he was the kind of person Valerie was talking about last night. _Find people who like you for you_ . He even invited Davy to come see him play at a cafe! He loved live music, but he never got the chance to see much of it -- and when he was at a nightclub, he was either drunk or trying to score a girl. This boy seemed to want to be Davy’s friend despite not knowing a thing about him. That _had_ to be a good sign.

Of course, every time a good thing happened to Davy, a bad thing was there to balance it out. The meatheads were waiting for him after his shift wrapped up at 2 a.m., and they were not happy.

“Oh, hey fellas,” Davy said casually. It was times like these he was grateful to be an actor.

“You think you’re a tough guy now?” the leader almost screamed.

“Yeah, who d’y’think you are?” another added.

Davy shrugged, flinching when they started to inch closer to him. “Someone tryin’ to not get beat up after work every night?”

“Not good enough,” one of them said, taking a heavy swing at Davy’s face. He could actually hear the crack when their bones connected. Davy was on the ground in seconds.

“Try fightin’ back from that, huh tiny? Oh, that’s right. You _can’t_.”

Davy’s arms flung in front of his face as he endured the sharp kicks to his back and his stomach. They were _mad_ tonight, and he had provoked them. The least he could do was protect his face.

After 10 long, painful minutes and no sort of retaliation from Davy, they had tired themselves out. Davy pushed himself up on wobbling arms, barely able to suck in enough oxygen to keep his heart pumping. It wasn’t like this was out of the norm, but this seemed to hurt more than normal. After Valerie’s big speech, he thought that maybe the universe would reward him with a night off from this. Maybe it would be the moment where the bullies turned their attention to someone else. There he was, getting his hopes up for something again, only to be let down miserably. Nothing like this had ever happened in England. Maybe the problem wasn’t Davy. Maybe it was just… _America_.

But he was willing to give Peter the benefit of the doubt -- after all, Valerie was beyond thrilled when Davy told her he had a potential roommate (he had neglected to mention the beat-up). Plus, his callback had gone surprisingly well, and he was given a second one for Monday morning, so he was in a better mood than normal. He had committed to talking with Peter and it would be rude of Davy to not at least give him a chance. 

Hanging out with Peter at the cafe almost made him forget how beat up he was. He was lucky the bruises were confined to body parts that were hidden underneath clothes. Talking with Peter and hearing his music was such a relaxing experience that closing his eyes for two seconds turned into a near-three hour nap. He was horrified, but also grateful that Peter didn’t try and ask him why he was so tired. And when he offered to walk Davy home, he had to hide his excitement by pretending he didn’t even want it. Peter didn’t strike Davy as the violent type -- his love beads gave him away -- but he _looked_ like he could be tough. He was tall and relatively muscular. _Maybe Peter’ll be my saving grace,_ Davy thought as they left the cafe. It wasn’t until they were halfway through their walk that he realized the two of them traveling together had the exact opposite effect. He panicked and shoved his way into the bar, a place he was guaranteed to pick up chicks. He got too drunk too quick and let himself go when he found out that Peter had left. In fact, he was so far gone that _Benny_ had to walk him home.

“Man, are you even old enough to drink?” Benny wondered aloud. He wasn’t touching Davy, but he was walking very closely behind him, holding his hands out like he was spotting one of his friends at the gym.

“‘m 19!” Davy yelled. “I can *hic* drink.”

“Okay, big guy,” Benny said, cautiously leaning forward as Davy struggled to walk. “Sheesh. I don’t even get this bad.”

“‘S cause you-- you’re tall.”

Benny laughed. “If you say so.”

He made as much light conversation with Davy as he possibly could to keep him from spacing out too much. The last thing he wanted was to hear the deep, unfiltered thoughts of a boy he barely knew.

He followed the drunk Brit up the stairs of his apartment and lightly knocked on the door. 

“Can I help -- holy shit,” Valerie gasped, eyes immediately falling to Davy. She quickly reached out and yanked him inside, slinging a protective arm older his shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

Benny shrugged. “Dunno. He got carried away.”

“Right, obviously,” she groaned. Davy slinked out from under her grip and flopped face down onto the couch.

“Are you Valerie?”

“Yeah… oh, shit. Are you--”

“--Benny,” he stuck his hand out. “I’m friends with James who’s friends with Dan--”

“--and my best friend Jess’s sister Cara is his cousin.”

“Wait, wouldn’t that make Dan Jess’s cousin too?” Davy suddenly called out from the couch. “If they’re *hic* sisters.”

“Not if you’re adopted,” Valerie smiled, rolling her eyes at her drunken roommate.

“Is he gonna be alright?” Benny asked, his voice conveying the slightest bit of worry.

“Yeah. I’ll take care of him. Is… is that Pete guy with you?”

“Peter? Oh, no… he went home a while ago.”

Valerie frowned. “Okay. Well, you get home safe, okay? And thank you. For helping him.”

Benny shrugged. “‘S the least I could do.”

Valerie smiled at him as she shut the door, immediately running to Davy’s side. He was fast asleep now. Valerie sighed as she flipped him over, took his boots off and threw a blanket over him. Something bad had happened tonight, and she wanted to find out what.

* * *

Davy awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and burning joints. He tried to sit up, but he cried in pain. 

“Davy?” Valerie poked her head out of the bedroom, hearing his whimpers. “How you feeling?”

“Bloody awful,” Davy finally managed to sit up. “What… happened?”

“You came home piss drunk at 3 in the morning. Benny had to bring you home.”

“ _Benny_ brought me home?!” _That bloke was teasing me all night!_

“Yeah, thank god he did. You were so far gone, Davy, I was scared shitless.”

“Well, I’m alright now.”

“No the _hell_ you’re not,” Valerie scolded. “You’re going to tell me what happened.”

“No,” Davy said immediately. It wasn’t just the fact that he could barely remember what had happened, but everything he _could_ remember involved Peter. Peter’s confusion when he dragged him to the club. His angered silence at watching Davy flirt. Leaving without saying goodbye. He had screwed up, and Peter didn’t deserve that.

“I have to apologize,” he said, trying to sit up. 

“What? To who?” 

“Peter!” Davy cried, trying to get up. A sharp pain in his chest kept him from completing his mission.

“Peter? Why would you need to apologize to _him?_ He abandoned you last night.”

“No, you’ve got it wrong,” Davy said, grimacing. “I have to apologize.”

“Okay, whatever, I’ve got it all wrong. But you’re in no shape to go out right now. Why don’t you call him?”

“I don’t have his number,” Davy said flatly. 

“Do you know where he lives?”

“...No,” Davy admitted. “But you know Benny!”

“No, not really. I just met him last night when he brought you home.”

Davy’s head dropped. “Well, I know he works at that cafe. I’ll just ask when his next performance is and--”

“You need to _rest_ , man. Look at yourself. You’re covered in bruises.”

Davy looked down at his chest, which had become uncovered as his shirt slipped up his body when he tried to sit up. He was horrified at the big yellow-purple splotch that was on his stomach, complemented by several smaller bumps and bruises. He rolled up his sleeve -- his forearms didn’t get off easy, either.

“I’ll get you a headache pill. Just take it easy today, alright?”

“But my callback--”

“--practice tomorrow,” Valerie cut him off, standing up. “I’ve gotta be at the stage soon to set up. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Please promise me you’ll stay here and rest.” Valerie’s eyes were begging. 

“Okay,” Davy sighed -- or lied, he hadn’t determined that yet. He graciously accepted a couple pills and savored the taste of water as it washed down his throat.

“And later tonight, we’re going to talk about what happened,” Valerie said. It wasn’t a suggestion so much as it was an official decree.

“Right,” Davy muttered. As soon as she closed the door, Davy got up from the couch and hobbled to the bathroom. His bruises weren’t nearly this bad when he showered yesterday morning. Maybe it was the excessive drinking, or maybe he wasn’t looking hard enough. Regardless, Davy stripped and took a 30-minute shower, alternating between hot and cold water to wake himself up and calm himself down. He was going crazy trying to figure out how he was going to find Peter. He said he played at more than one cafe -- who knows where he’ll be tonight? He vaguely remembered something about Peter’s next gig at that cafe being Wednesday. Today was Friday. Davy couldn’t wait five days. 

He eventually decided he would just walk around Greenwich Village in the hopes that he’d run into him down there. If nothing else, he knew that’s where he lived. But a crack of thunder made Davy jump -- he hadn’t bothered to check the weather. It was pouring outside. There was no chance Peter was _that_ carefree that he would be playing guitar outside today. Davy’s eyes began to well up -- his only idea had been shut down in seconds. Every time he coughed, his chest ached with pain. He had been so reckless that he scared his only potential roommate away. The only good and steady thing in his life was tainted by the fact that he couldn’t go home every night without at least one new bruise on his body. He couldn’t believe this is how things were for him. He stared out the window, watching as the people below scrambled to find cover from the raindrops. That’s how Davy felt every day. Each raindrop was a new problem and it didn’t matter how nice the days before were, because eventually the rain would come down and he’d be caught right in the middle of it. If he didn’t find a roommate and _fast_ , he was going to be like the people sleeping on cardboard with dirt caked so deeply into their faces that it was a permanent feature. _He_ would be looked upon from above as he scrambled to find cover. He couldn’t take this anymore. He had to stop thinking about Peter. It was stupid. He was just some random kid. A nice kid, sure. But a random one. He wasn’t the _only_ person Davy could get along with. He knew plenty of people, even if they all hated his guts because he yelled at production managers and mouthed off casting directors behind their backs. He could find someone. Valerie was just keeping him around out of pity; he had treated her like garbage too until she gave him a chance. Not many people were willing to give him chances.

Something had to change. 

He wasn’t about to go running in this weather, but he couldn’t stay inside. Davy ran to the closet, pulling on his boots and zipping up his raincoat before realizing something: he didn’t have his umbrella. Either Peter kept it or he left it at the club. Just another thing he had screwed up.

Davy grunted as he took a set of keys and locked the door behind him. He didn’t care if he was going to be soaking wet. He supposed he should just accept its inevitability.

As it turns out, it was a full-on thunderstorm. Lightning flashed across the sky and lit it up, which was an impressive feat given his location. The thunder was so loud it seemed to shake the skyscrapers. Davy kept his head down and his hands in his pockets. He was dripping wet at this point, so he just powered down the sidewalk. Nobody was crazy enough to be walking more than two blocks in this weather. At one point, the rain was coming down so hard that the intersections became gridlocked, and Davy’s mode of transportation was actually the most efficient. He was on autopilot. He didn’t know where he was going.

Eventually, he spotted a familiar arched landmark. He laughed to himself. Of _course_ he’d end up here. He was hopeless, wasn’t he? Even when he had no destination in mind, he still wound up obsessing over this one random boy.

When he stopped for a moment to observe where he was, he suddenly became overwhelmed with exhaustion. He had pretty much walked an hour straight through the freezing rain. With no desire to find a cafe, Davy made a beeline for a bench underneath a tree and sat down. He had never seen New York so empty. There were plenty of cars, but no people. 

A booming crack of thunder caused Davy to jump. Why did he do this? Why was he out here? And why didn’t he want to get up?

Once he allowed the first tear to fall, his crying rivaled the rain. He couldn’t even distinguish his tears from the raindrops. They all plopped to the ground with an equal amount of indifference. _Indifference_. That’s what Davy felt. That’s all he had felt since coming to America.

He didn’t know how long he was sitting there, but a voice broke him from his trance.

“Davy?”

He whipped his head up and wiped his eyes, which were blurry from the crying and the rain. He had to blink to make sure he was seeing right.

“Peter?”

The blond, who was without a raincoat or the proper footwear, took a seat next to him.

“What are you doing here?” they both asked, almost in unison, causing them both to giggle. _Of course_.

“You first,” Davy said quickly.

“Okay. Well, I live here.”

Davy couldn’t help but laugh. “What are you doing _outside_?”

“Oh! I saw you sitting out here. Well, I was _pretty_ sure it was you. It was hard to tell. I was at NYU,” he vaguely waved his hand at a collection of buildings behind them, “talking to a professor there. I’ve seen him a lot while playing, and I guess he wanted to talk to me. He’s a professor in music theory, among other things.”

“Wow,” was all Davy could say.

“Yeah, it was wonderful! He’s very smart. I was only talking to him for about a half hour and I learned so much.”

“...why did you come outside?” Davy practically had to yell over the rain.

“Because! I saw you out here and I couldn’t let you be alone.”

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

Peter shrugged. A stream of water followed his movements as the rain cascaded down his shirt. “I don’t like to be mad. I find it’s generally unproductive and only causes more harm than good.”

“That’s…” Davy started, but was cut off.

“Why are you sitting out here though? It’s pouring rain, you know.”

Davy smiled. Just about everything Peter said made him smile. “I know. I… I don’t know why I’m here.” He ducked at another clap of thunder, and the back of his coat caught a snag on the bench, lifting his jacket up just enough to reveal a smattering of bruises on his stomach. Peter gasped.

“David! You’re all bruised!”

Davy’s face turned red as he yanked his coat back down. “I-It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing! What happened?”

“Nothing, mate. Nothing…” Davy trailed off. 

_It’s okay to admit you need protection._

“Davy, I know last night was weird, but I won’t stay mad at you, and I won’t pretend like I didn’t just see your stomach all bruised up. I won’t pretend like I don’t care about you.”

_Find people who like you for you._

Davy sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly before letting a stream of tears burst through his eyelids. When he exhaled, his breath came out choppy, like he was in a boat that was traveling over rolling waters. 

“I’m sorry!” His voice cracked as he slowly lifted his head up, his red eyes meeting Peter’s. “I dunno what I was thinking. I wasn’t, really. Not at all. I let myself get carried away and I acted like a real wanker and I-- it’s because of these blokes! These--these meatheads. They kick me down every night after work, Peter. Every single night.”

“Kick you down… like…” Peter’s eyes went wide and he gasped when it finally clicked.

“Yeah,” Davy looked down, now more embarrassed than sad. “I’m pathetic.”

“No, no you’re not! You’re the farthest thing from pathetic, David. You’re sweet and charming and funny and talented. And you’re my friend.”

“How… how do you want to be my friend? I fell asleep at your cafe. I treated you like garbage. I was an arse.”

“Like I said before, I don’t like to stay mad. I don’t judge people based on their mistakes. You made a mistake, David.”

“But… but how come you want to be friends with someone who can’t even succeed at the one thing he’s supposedly good at? Or someone who’s so pathetic they get beaten up after work because everyone thinks he’s a queer.”

“I would like you just the same if you were successful,” Peter said, confused.

“Easy for you to say,” Davy scoffed. “You play in every bloody nightclub in town. Everybody wants to come and see you.”

“Yeah, but… success isn’t enough, you know? I’m lonely. I have Steve and my roommates, but we’re… drifting apart.” That was the first time Peter allowed himself to say that. “I can feel it. It’s not the same anymore. All of it, even the music. I love playing here, but something about the people is starting to drag me down. They don’t _really_ dig the message out here. Nobody really wants to be friends. I thought… I thought _we_ could be friends, Davy. I still _want_ to be friends, if that’s alright.”

Davy was stunned. Here Peter was, sitting out in the pouring rain with him and asking Davy for his permission to stay friends as if _Peter_ was the one to screw up massively. He didn’t believe Peter was as nice as he let on, because people were rarely what they appeared to be. That was something Davy had learned in all his years as an actor. But maybe that was just in England. Maybe… maybe it was different in America.

“Let’s leave,” Davy said suddenly.

“Oh, thank goodness! I’m starting to feel sick,” Peter said, standing up.

“No!” Davy said, shooting up off the bench. “I mean let’s leave New York.”

Peter stared, tilting his head.

“This place is dragging us down. _Both_ of us. Maybe Broadway isn’t for me. I haven’t gelled with a single person in months and I already feel better with you after two days. Maybe New York isn’t right for us.”

A beat of silence engulfed the two, enough that it made Davy begin to question what the hell he had just said. Finally, Peter spoke.

“...where would we go?”

Davy pondered this for a moment. He wasn’t sure, really. He had just come up with the idea on the spot after hearing Peter’s sad speech. There was only one other place he knew of in America, though.

“Los Angeles!”

Peter blinked. “All the way out to LA? I’ve never even left New England.”

“And I had never left England proper before coming to America,” Davy quickly countered. “Come on, man! The beach, the sunshine! No more days like… this,” he said, shutting his eyes as he looked up at the sky. “And the girls…” Davy said dreamily, making Peter chuckle.

“All the good music seems to be coming from California these days,” Peter thought out loud. Not to mention the revolution that was going on over there. They really knew where it was at.

“Exactly!” Davy said excitedly, surprised that Peter was even entertaining this idea. “Whadda ya say? Let’s leave tonight!”  
  
“Don’t get too carried away,” Peter giggled. “I still have gigs I have to play. I can’t just abandon them…” he trailed off, thinking for a long moment. “You really want to do this?”

The question caught Davy off-guard. He thought he did, but maybe he was just riding some weird high of Peter not being upset with him. He had a second callback, too -- those were rare and almost certainly meant he’d get a part. But did he even want that anymore? The longer he stuck around here, the longer he would subject his body to physical and emotional harm. Valerie was right; those meatheads would never change their mind about Davy. Nothing was going to stop them from picking on him.

Unless he wasn’t there to pick on anymore.

“I am,” Davy said, puffing out his chest a bit to feign confidence. No, he _was_ confident. He _did_ want to do this. 

“I think… I think we _belong_ out there,” Peter said softly. His voice seemed to dodge the pounding of the rain and he was able to get his words out between raindrops hitting the ground. “I can’t explain it. Just like I can’t explain why I want to be around you so much.” He immediately blushed, realizing how that sounded. “It feels right. LA feels right.”

Davy laughed at Peter’s idealism. “We haven’t even seen it yet!”

“I know,” Peter said, his eyes darting to the ground. “But I don’t have to see to believe. Some things… some things you just _know_ are right. This is one of them.”

Davy felt like crying again, but for all the right reasons. He supposed that the reason he walked out through the pouring rain was to find answers. Answers to what, he didn’t quite know. He figured he’d just _know_ , and he wasn’t the kind of person who went through life like that. He needed to see his talent translate to success to believe he had any. He never followed a feeling or a gut instinct. He needed real, tangible affirmation. And Peter _was_ that affirmation. 

“...David, your lips are turning blue,” Peter said, stepping close to his friend. Davy was shivering violently.

“Oh bollocks,” he said between chattering teeth. “We should go inside somewhere, yeah?”

“Well, I do love playing in the rain--”

“--But I’ve been out here for way too long.” 

Peter nodded. “We can’t have you getting sick if we’re going to go to LA. Those girls definitely won’t want to kiss you!”

Davy laughed. “I could get any girl to kiss me, sick or not.”

Peter smiled, his dimples collecting water as it streamed down his bright face. “You’re crazy, Davy.”

Davy beamed as he followed Peter through the park back to his apartment. As soon as the two got inside, Benny, Steve and another one of their roommates rushed over to get them blankets, hot tea and some new clothes. Davy sat on the couch in a pair of oversized sweatpants and a baggy shirt, wrapped in a fringy blanket sipping tea from a chipped mug. He laughed with Peter at how ridiculous he looked. He made jokes about how the tea tasted like piss, but kept drinking it anyway. He apologized fruitlessly to Benny, who finally threatened to punch him in the mouth if he said _thank you_ one more time. He sat quietly as Peter excitedly told his roommates about their plan to move to California, making sure to smile every time his blond friend flashed him a dimpled grin.

And it all felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for all your kudos and nice comments! this is my first monkees fic and i've never written a story like this before (and i find that i have a harder time writing peter and davy than the Ms), so i'm really glad you all seem to be enjoying it! it means the world to me. if you came here for mike and micky, don't worry, we're getting back to them soon :)


	8. ...and other things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize i never really specified what year it is, so let’s say it’s 1964. so it’s now may 1964 (and we left off with mike and micky in late august 1964, so we’re playing catch-up)

It had been a few days since both the rain and the park. After Davy’s rather out-there proposal of spontaneously moving across the country, not much happened over the weekend. Davy had told Valerie about his idea, and she was all for it. Peter’s roommates, however, were not as enthusiastic.

“You barely know this kid,” Steve said on Sunday morning, taking slow sips of his coffee. “You really wanna move across the country just for him?”

“Not _for_ him. _With_ him,” Peter corrected.

“Same difference. You’ve got such a groovy life here, Pete. You really want to give that all up?”

Peter deliberated over this for a while. On paper, it sounded ridiculous to leave behind everything he had in New York. But something about moving as far west as you could go was strangely alluring to him, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. Well, he couldn’t figure it out until he stopped by that NYU professor’s office again later that day.

“Peter, you never told me your father was a professor!”  
  
Those were the first words he heard when he walked in, and they made him freeze.

“Wh--I--” Peter tried, but his tongue felt like he was having an allergic reaction.

“Dr. Thorpe is the head of the economics department here, and he’s one of my good friends. I was telling him about you and he thought the name Tork sounded familiar. I don’t know why you changed your last name.”

Peter remained silent and still, his eyes wide.

“Dr. Thorpe does a lot of collaboration with the folks up at UConn. He works quite closely with your father.”

Peter gulped down the big lump in his throat, which only seemed to contribute to the growing weight in his stomach. _Come on, Peter, say something_.

“I--uh--didn’t know that,” he mustered. He stumbled over to a chair by the professor’s desk and fell into it. He didn’t feel like staying anymore, but if he didn’t sit down somewhere, his legs surely would have given out.

“You’re exhibiting all the signs of a boy whose relationship with his father isn’t very solid,” the professor mused. Shocked by his bluntness, Peter could only stare.

“Running away is one thing. But changing your name… your father doesn’t even know where to find you.”

“That was the point,” Peter muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I’m going to move to LA,” Peter said suddenly, spontaneously, without really thinking. He didn’t even realize what he had said. He just picked out the first thing that was on his mind.

The professor raised his eyebrow. “What?”

“Me and a friend. We’re going to move out there. Try to… form a band.”

“A folk band?”

Peter shook his head. “Well, we don’t know yet--”

“--do I know this friend?”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“What does he play?”

Peter paused. “Uhm… he sings.”

At this, the professor’s face softened a bit. “Ah. That’s good, that’s good. Good for you, Peter. A musician needs to follow his heart, and it seems like you have your heart set on this.”

And Peter finally realized _why_ he had his heart set on this, and there were two reasons. One, he really did miss being in a band. His brief stint with the Flower Children taught him that the only thing better than making music is making music with your friends. He didn’t even realize that’s why it all felt so unfulfilling until he said it out loud. But the biggest reason wasn’t nearly as wholesome. It seemed that no matter where he went or who he knew, he was inexplicably tied back to his father. Though he had a sinking feeling that this would never stop, he at least had a much better chance of escaping it in California than in New York. The shadow of his father surely couldn’t stretch _that_ far.

When he got back to his place later that night, Davy was sitting in his living room.

“David! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Peter looked around -- nobody else was home.

“Benny let me in. I figured we could talk logistics,” he said, reaching next to him and pulling up a pad and paper. “Figure out how we’re gonna do this--”

“--you’re sure about this, right?” Peter asked, cutting him off.

“Yeah. I am. Are you not?” Davy shot back. His face was scrunched up into something that mixed annoyance with confusion.

Peter pinched the brim of his nose and released a breath before taking a seat next to Davy on the couch. “I am. I just want to make sure…”

“...make sure what?”

“That this will actually work,” Peter blurted.

Davy cocked his head. “Work? How would it _not_ work? Are you all right, mate? You’re not making any sense.”

After a beat of silence, Peter spoke. “I just need to get away from my dad,” he said plainly. “He doesn’t like that I’m a musician. He thinks it’s a waste. And I don’t want to keep thinking about him all the time.”

Davy didn’t know what to say for a moment. He supposed he’d be better at dishing out parental advice if he had experience with a dad. 

“I’m sorry, Peter,” he finally said. “I had no idea. You think he’ll be mad that you’re going to California?”

Peter shrugged, his mind suddenly racing. He hadn’t even thought of telling him… should he? Should the first phone call with his parents in _months_ be the ‘ _I’m moving across the country and there’s nothing you can do to stop me’_ conversation? A final act of defiance?

“Dads are complicated, they are,” Davy said softly. 

“You can say that again,” Peter muttered. He could tell that Davy understood.

The two mulled over in silence for a few minutes, each trapped in their own mind with their own thoughts. When they finally started discussing things about the move, Peter was not shy about the loads of money he had been saving from all of his gigs. Living in a closet for a few months was not a fun experience, but it at least enabled him to save up. Davy had enough to pay for his own plane ticket, but that was just about where his supply ended. They had budgeted out money they’d need for food and a hotel when they arrived, but with Peter’s ability to stumble his way into any situation, good or bad, they figured they’d be able to find a place within a few weeks.

“You’re okay with paying for all this?” Davy asked for the umpteenth time. 

“Yes, David! I promise. It’s alright,” Peter smiled. He was sincere, too; no price was too much to pay.

“Can I ask you something?” Davy said suddenly.

“Of course,” Peter said, straightening up a bit.

“Well, I just…” Davy furiously fiddled with his thumbs. “I came to America to act on Broadway. And as far as I know, there’s no Broadway in Los Angeles.”

Peter nodded, not quite sure what he was getting at.

“...so, I’m not really sure, y’know? You have music. You can play anything, I’m sure.” Davy kept his eyes cast down. “I guess I’m trying to say that it might take me awhile to figure out what the bloody hell I’m doing.”

“You know, I told that NYU professor that I was moving to LA to form a band.”

Davy’s gaze finally met Peter’s. “A band?”

Peter nodded, his long hair shaking in front of his eyes. “Yeah. I kind of was in a band for a couple weeks before I met you, and it was the most fun I’ve ever had. But I can’t sing real well at all, and I think we’d make a really great group, you and I.”

Davy blinked. “ _Us?_ A band?”

“Yeah, man! Like… Peter, Paul and Mary. Except… Peter and Davy.”

“Wouldn’t we be more like Peter and Gordon?”

“Oh, right. Because you’re British.”

“That’s not… ugh,” Davy sighed, dramatically smacking his hand on his face. 

“Well, whatever we name ourselves, I think we’d be groovy. You’re a natural performer, Davy. A perfect front man.”

“But… I can hardly strum a guitar. I can’t play anything.”

“You don’t need to! If you just sing like you do at the diner, you’ll be a hit.”

Davy had never pictured himself as someone who’d ever join a band. Pop music was an entirely different world than stage acting. But he knew he had the talent, and if someone like Peter was confident he’d do well, then _Davy_ was confident. 

“So when are we leaving?” Peter asked. “I’ve got my spot at Cafe Wha? on Wednesday, but if you wanted to leave tomorrow or something, I’m sure they’d understand.”

“Well…” Davy had his second callback tomorrow. If he went to it, he might actually get the part, and that would complicate things. As if things weren’t already complicated enough. 

“Do you have something going on?” Peter asked.

“...yeah. I’ve got a callback tomorrow.”

“David! That sounds important,” Peter scolded.

“It is. But even if I got the part, I don’t even know if I _want it_ anymore, you know? Ugh, this is all very confusing,” he groaned, grabbing his head.

Peter scooted a few feet over to Davy and wrapped an arm around the shorter man. “Life is confusing. I’ve found that most things don’t really make sense. But as long as we’re in this together, we’ll figure it out, alright? We’re doing this. We don’t have to worry about what goes on here anymore, or what could have been. We’re going to start something new and groovy all on our own.”

It turns out that all Davy really needed to calm his anxieties was a good pep talk. His grandfather had given him plenty of pep talks back in England, but he was probably too young to really comprehend their meaning. And they weren’t really peppy -- they were more consequential, more direct. More harsh. If he didn’t work hard, he wouldn’t be successful. Well, he had worked harder than anyone he’s ever known, but he had no success to show for it. Instead of trying to fix something that couldn’t be mended, he made a decision to try something new. Peter was right -- things didn’t really make much sense. But that was just life. And Davy was going to keep searching until he found things that _did_ make sense. He was lucky he had found Peter.

And so the two embarked on their journey, saying tearful goodbyes to their friends. Valerie made Davy swear to her that he’d keep in touch, and she joked that when he became famous, he’d have to write a song about her. Peter, Steve and Benny stayed up until 2 a.m. having an in-depth conversation about life, and by the end of it, Steve was convinced that Peter was doing the right thing. He was a drifter, after all.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Benny shot off the couch and slipped into his room, digging through a pile of junk and emerging with a 45 in his hand. “I saw this in Village Music World. Thought it’d be funny to give to Davy.”

Peter took the record and let out a laugh. Steve leaned over to see what it was and joined Peter in his laughter.

“‘On Broadway’? Very original,” he teased.

“Oh come on! It’s funny.”

It _was_ funny. Davy gave an endearing chuckle when Peter gave him the record the next day, safely tucking it into his suitcase. Even though Benny was generally brash and abrasive, Davy was appreciative for walking him home that night when he had no reason to. Clearly, Benny thought highly enough of Davy to give him something.

Steve had given Peter his favorite guitar pick. Both of them weren’t very materialistic, so every item they owned had meaning. Peter nearly teared up when Steve placed it in his hand.

“I want you to have it. Seriously,” Steve insisted, pressing against Peter’s fingers so they closed over his palm. “You’re the most talented musician I’ve ever known, Peter. There isn’t anyone else I’d want to have this pick but you.”

Peter put the pick in his pocket, vowing to never go anywhere without it.

“You ready for this, mate?”

The two had ridden a cab to the airport and were now standing in the ticket line. They were staring at each other, desperately trying to read the other’s face to see if the other would show any hesitation.

There was none.

They bought two tickets and waited patiently at their gate. Davy’s leg was bouncing as they made small talk, trying to make predictions about what LA was going to be like. They both took solace in the fact that this was a brand-new experience for both of them. It felt like they were flying to an entirely different country. As they began to board, Davy almost turned right around and gave up. It almost didn’t feel real, but this was how it had felt when he left England. At least this time, he wasn’t alone.

The plane ride was a little over six hours, but it felt like a lifetime. As soon as they landed and entered the airport, Davy began to ogle at the palm trees. Peter wouldn’t stop talking about the time zone difference.

They wandered around the airport for what felt like an hour before they got their bags. Each time one of them caught sight of something new and intriguing, they grabbed the other and pulled them toward it, talking quickly and excitedly. They finally found their way to the exit and walked over to where the taxis were. They immediately realized how overdressed they were.

“Where you boys headed?” the driver asked as they stumbled into the back seat.

“LA,” Peter answered.

The driver raised an eyebrow. “You are in LA.”

“Downtown,” Davy jumped in. “Can you take us there?”

Upon hearing Davy’s accent, the driver softened up a bit. “Sure, kiddos.”

Los Angeles was smaller than New York -- every city was. But this was Peter’s first time on the west coast, which made him feel giddy. Each palm tree that blurred past the window was confirmation that he was really _here_ . He was actually doing this. Davy couldn’t help but imagine he was in a movie; maybe a sequel to the first movie of his life. New York had the bright lights of Broadway and the allure of being this mysterious, untouchable place that drew Davy in instantly. He liked when things had an air of intrigue and ambiguity to them. It was a place where you worked hard for your dreams and it would always pay off. LA, though, was like a dreamland. People wandered there because they floated through the clouds and drifted through space and by the time they got to the city, they couldn’t go west any further. They had no choice but to all congregate there, all sharing free will and free spirit and free _anything_. It wasn’t just the weather, though that was certainly part of it. LA almost had a glow to it. Peter thought that was just the smog.

The cab driver dropped them off somewhere in the middle of a glob of buildings. They weren’t nearly as tall as the ones in New York, but it didn’t matter. They were Los Angeles buildings. They were _west coast_ buildings.

“We did it, mate,” Davy sighed happily, clapping Peter’s back. 

“We’re really in LA,” Peter responded in the same dreamy tone. He didn’t think there would be a huge difference between the two cities -- after all, he grew up near New York, so that was the only city he’s ever really seen. He figured that all cities were like New York. It was clear right away that this wasn’t the case. Peter felt free here. Maybe it was because he was far from his parents, he wasn’t quite sure. He didn’t care to pinpoint the source. He just wanted to enjoy the feeling.

It was the end of April, so when they left New York, it was drizzling and 40 degrees. Now, in California, it was sunny and 66. It almost didn’t feel real. Being from England, Davy didn’t grow up seeing much sun. If this is what every day was going to be like… he couldn’t believe he didn’t come here sooner. 

While Davy was admiring the weather, Peter was looking around at the people. Everyone was walking slower. They seemed happy. Friendly, even. Some of them even gave Peter a warm smile when they caught him staring. While they were passing a park, he saw someone playing a guitar under a tree, making him smile. Just like the Vil.

“Should we ask someone for a nearby hotel?” Peter asked.

Davy gave him a look. “Ask someone? You sure?”

Peter just smiled and gently tapped a passerby on the arm.

“Excuse me, we’re new in town and we’re wondering if you could tell us where the nearest hotel is?”

The passerby -- a young girl, probably about Peter’s age -- smiled. “Hey! Wow, welcome. That’s real groovy. There’s a cheap place if you walk three blocks and take a left,” she pointed behind them.

“Groovy, thanks! We just flew in this afternoon. We need to find a place to stay.”

Davy’s eyes widened. _Why would he tell her that?_

“Oh!” the girl gasped. “Why don’t you stay with me! I’d hate for you to pay for a hotel while you’re looking for a pad.”

“No, that’s alright, love,” Davy cut in before Peter could say anything. He flashed her a winning smile. “We’ll be quite alright. Thanks for the help!”

Before the girl could get a word out, Davy dragged Peter away. 

“Gee, everyone here is so nice,” Peter said.

“A little _too_ nice, if y’ask me,” Davy muttered.

They eventually found the hotel and promptly checked in. It was a pretty old hotel, but it was serviceable. And affordable.

“I need a nap,” Davy groaned as he flopped onto the bed.

“Me too,” Peter said, mirroring Davy’s action. It was only 6 p.m., but they were still on east coast time and tired from all the travel. Their short nap ended up being a full night’s sleep, and when they woke up, the sun was rising on a new day.

“Oh, man…” Davy sat up, rubbing his eyes. He took one whiff of his clothes and immediately bolted for the shower. Peter woke up not that much later, flipping through some tourism guides that were on the desk.

“Anything good?” Davy asked when he emerged from the shower. He walked out bare-chested with just a small towel wrapped around his waist. Peter was surprised for a moment, but quickly moved past that feeling. Clearly, Davy felt comfortable around him.

“There’s this cafe called Chuck’s,” he said, holding the brochure out to Davy. “And look! It says they have live music! We should swing by today and see where it’s at.”

“I kinda wanted to ask you about that,” Davy said, pulling a shirt over his head and shaking his hair out. “‘Ow exactly are we planning on being a band?”

“There’s no secret to it,” Peter laughed. 

“But are we writin’ our own stuff? Playin’ other people’s songs?”

“A little bit of both, I guess,” Peter shrugged. “We can only play so many things, since I’m the only one with an instrument.”

Davy knew Peter didn’t mean that as a stab against him, but he still felt uncomfortable at him pointing it out. 

“I write my own music, but I’m not exactly a wordsmith,” Peter said. “Maybe you can write lyrics!”

Davy pursed his lips. “I’ve never tried that before.”

“Then maybe you’ll be really good at it! You never know,” Peter smiled. 

“So, we’ll be like Lennon and McCartney, but better?” Davy joked, cracking a small smile.

“That’s the spirit!” Peter said happily. He reached across his bed and grabbed his banjo from the floor. “Let’s try something. Do you know I Want To Hold Your Hand?”

Davy scoffed. “You really gotta ask me that?” After getting fully dressed, he took a seat next to Peter on his bed. “You can play that on a banjo?”

“Well, sure. I had to leave my guitar back home in Connecticut since I didn’t know if I could carry both around all the time. Which reminds me, I have to look for one to buy later.”

“I hope you’re writing these things down.”

“That’s your job!” Peter said playfully before going through a chord progression. “Okay. Ready?”

Davy nodded, and was impressed when Peter launched into a twangy rendition of the song. It didn’t sound as strange as he was expecting it to; maybe because the guitar in the song was very banjo-esque to begin with. But Davy found himself easily grooving along to what Peter was playing, and Peter found it easy to play off Davy’s singing tempo and style. 

“Wow,” Peter said when they finished. “We sound great.”

“You got that right! We might knock the Beatles off the charts if we keep this up.” Davy paused for a moment, then scrunched up his nose. “Mate, you stink.”

“You just said we sounded great!” Peter pouted.

“No! I mean you really smell bad.”

“Oh.” Peter lifted his arm and sniffed. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah, man. Take a shower and we’ll go do all the things you want us to, alright?”

As Peter freshened up, Davy walked over to the window and pulled back the dingy curtains. The streets weren’t nearly as busy as New York, but there were enough people to remind him that he wasn’t the only one with dreams and aspirations. 

Peter had set a straightforward itinerary for the day: Go to Chuck’s and buy a guitar. The two took their time walking to the cafe, mainly because they kept getting lost. The LA streets were a lot longer than New York’s, and both of them had gotten so used to the NYC grid and street nomenclature that LA was, by default, confusing. It was going to be hard to stay here without a car. 

By the time they reached the cafe, Peter realized that this was going to be very different than anything in the Village. The “cafe” was basically a diner. He would never have guessed they did live music. He began to grow worried that he was at the wrong place, but Davy insisted they were where they needed to be. It was just… different.

“Hello,” the hostess greeted them with a nice smile when they walked in. “Just two?”

“Actually, we’re musicians,” Davy said, noticing that Peter looked rather nervous. “We’re wonderin’ what it would take to play here.”

“Oh. Uh, I’m not really sure! Let me find Chuck.”

She disappeared for a few moments into a back room and brought out the man himself. 

“I didn’t actually think there was a real guy named Chuck,” Davy whispered to Peter, causing him to giggle.

“Oh, you’re a wise guy, huh?”

Davy froze. “I--uh--”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Chuck laughed, slinging his arm around Davy. “You got a sense of humor. I like that. Chuck Walton.”

“David Jones. And this is Peter Tork.”

“ _David Jones,_ ” Chuck repeated, attempting to sound snooty with a British accent. “Oh, man, you are _British_. Wow. What brings you all the way out here?”

“Well, me and my friend Peter are musicians. We just moved here.”

“And you came to little ol’ Chuck’s? Wow. I’m honored, truly.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Well, I saw your ad in a brochure. It said you do live music.”

Chuck nodded. “That we do. Wow, I’m really glad those ads are actually reaching people. I was beginning to doubt it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I advertise that we do live music.” Chuck leaned in and dramatically lowered his voice. “But, between you and me, it’s the same three acts every week. It’s all about nightclubs now around here. It didn’t used to be like that, though. Things are changing fast around here.”

Davy gave Peter a look that screamed _Are we really going to hang around here?_ It seemed like a lame place to play. If nightclubs were the scene, then that’s where they should be. But Peter was starting to warm up to this place. He didn’t have the best impression of nightclubs to begin with. It _was_ kind of like the cafes in New York. To him, it seemed like a good place to start for two people who just became a band 24 hours ago.

“Hm. That’s not really a great sell, is it?” Chuck said, laughing at himself when he noticed Davy’s expression. “Let’s go to my office. You can play for me there.”

“You sure about this one, mate?” Davy asked quietly when Chuck turned around. “Doesn’t seem very promising.”

“I like it,” Peter said, trying not to get annoyed. “Besides, we don’t need to become famous overnight. We just need dough to pay for a pad right now, dig?”

Davy frowned, but didn’t press further. When they sat in Chuck’s office and Peter began to unpack his banjo, Chuck gasped.

“A _banjo!_ Ooh. Don’t see too many of those around here.”

“You’re certainly not the first person to say that,” Peter said. “What would you like to hear?”

Chuck shrugged. “Just play anything!”

Since they had only practiced one song, Peter began to pluck out the intro to I Want To Hold Your Hand. Davy noticed Chuck’s expression turn from skepticism to pure delight throughout the song.

“Wow. That was the most intriguing thing I think I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“You must not have had a very exciting life, then,” Davy quipped.

“Nonsense! Don’t sell yourself short. That was wonderful. Unlike anything I’ve heard around here in a long time.”

Davy snuck a glance over at Peter, who was beaming.

“How would you two like to play here twice a week? We can start out at $50 per night and work our way up depending on how much they like you--”

“--We’ll do it!” Peter said, without hesitation. The sense of relief he felt was almost unnatural. He had no idea how his particular talents would play out in LA, but he was staying cautiously optimistic about it. He liked folk music. LA liked rock and roll. The _world_ liked rock and roll. He didn’t think it would be this… easy.

“Great! Great! This is great. Wonderful, even. I think the customers will like a different sound. You both remind me of that youngster, what’s his name. Dylan something?”

“Bob Dylan?”

“Sure. Yeah. Him. With the folksy vibe. Where did you say you were from again?”

“We never said where we were from--”

“--New York,” Peter cut in. “Well, Davy’s not from there. Neither am I, but that’s where we came from.”

“Ah. Now it’s all starting to come together.” Davy rolled his eyes at Chuck dramatically gesturing his arms around. “Alright, boys! Why don’t you come back here in a week? I’ll let you settle in first before making you work. Do you have a place yet?”

After Peter told him no, Chuck proceeded to give them a detailed list of landlords he knew and good, affordable places they should check out. He had given them about 20 places, which should have made Davy happy. Instead, he grew annoyed with each passing second he had to listen to Chuck talk. Davy was relieved when they finally left the place.

“Gee, what a nice man,” Peter said, scanning the list of names Chuck had written for them. “We got a gig on the first try!” 

Davy huffed.

“David, what’s wrong?” Peter asked immediately, stopping Davy with his arm.

“That bloke couldn’t be more irritating if he tried, I’ll tell ya.”

“Irritating? But… he was kind. He gave us a gig!”

“Sure, sure. But there’s something about him. Something about the people here. I don’t trust them.”

“What’s not to trust?”

Davy… couldn’t answer that.

“Hey,” Peter said, sternly but softly. He didn’t really need to get Davy’s attention like that, but he did anyway. Davy felt the gravity of that _hey_ and made eye contact with him. “If you don’t feel comfortable somewhere, I don’t want us to play there. This is a two-way street. We don’t have to go back there.”

“...it’s okay,” Davy sighed. “I mean… _you_ can go there. By yourself. I just… don’t want to.”

“Is there any reason why?”

“Dunno, mate. Just a feeling. A feeling I don’t quite like, either.”

“I won’t play without my partner,” Peter insisted.

“No, mate. I don’t wanna hold you back. You dig that bloke and you don’t have to turn ‘im down because of me. That place is your scene. Not so much mine.”

“...Are you sure?” Peter was practically whispering. He felt terrible.

Davy nodded and gave a small smile. “Promise. Besides, $50 twice a week won’t pay our rent, will it? We’ll have to find more gigs anyway.” Peter shifted nervously. “It’s like I said before. It’ll take me awhile to figure out what I’m doing, but I’ll be fine.”

“ _We’ll_ be fine,” Peter corrected. “Now, come on, I have to get a guitar so people stop talking about my banjo like it’s an exotic object.”

“We should buy some new clothes, too,” Davy muttered, wiping off a small stream of sweat from his forehead. His turtleneck and jacket made him stick out like a sore thumb, and he felt like one too, with the growing heat.

They walked around rather aimlessly for what had to be an hour. There were plenty of record stores, but they didn’t sell instruments. Eventually, though, they found a place. 

Davy found himself cringing at the bell that jingled when the door opened. There were a few people mulling around the store, mostly looking at the record collection in the middle of the room. That’s where Davy wandered off to while Peter immediately gravitated to a keyboard.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” Peter said under his breath, running his hands over the keys. He carefully turned it on and, despite not having played in a while, jumped right back into it as if time hadn’t passed at all. The other customers didn’t really think anything of it, but Davy noticed -- and so did one of the employees.

“Man, that was far out!” an excited voice piped up behind Peter. 

“Thanks, man,” Peter said, smiling and turning around to meet him. They were about equal height if they were bald, but the boy in front of him had a head of very voluminous hair.

“Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Peter shrugged. “I played piano as a kid. Guess I just never really stopped!”

“That’s real groovy. Say, I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new in town?”

Peter nodded, a little surprised that he was able to figure that out so quickly. 

“Sorry, I’ve just been working here a while and I never forget a face.” He smiled. “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Peter. Peter Tork.”

“I’m Micky! Dolenz. _Micky Dolenz_ ,” he said in a mock James Bond voice. He suddenly noticed the banjo on Peter’s back. “Ooh! What’s that?”

“A banjo,” Peter said, trying to make it casual. 

“Gosharoony! I’ve never met a banjo player before.” Peter pouted when he heard Davy snickering from behind a row of records.

“Well, I’m looking to buy a guitar, actually.”

Micky’s mouth dropped. “You play piano _and_ a banjo _and_ a guitar?”

Peter nodded, feeling flattered by his utter excitement. “And the harp. One day. Hopefully.”

“Well, we don’t have any harps. But we have lots of guitars!” Micky said, leading Peter to the instrument wall. “What kind are you looking for?”

“Oh. That’s a nice looking Ibanez,” Peter said, reaching for it. He strummed a few basic chords. “This sounds wonderful. Much nicer than my one back home.”

“Wow. You might be the easiest sell I’ve ever had,” Micky giggled. As he led Peter over to the counter, his eyes caught Davy, who was giving Peter a thumb’s up.

“That your friend?” he asked with a smirk, nodding his head to Davy.

“Oh, David? Yeah. We just moved here from New York.”

“New York?! The Big Apple! That’s outtasite! What brings you out here?”

“Music,” Peter said, digging around his pockets for money. “Hey, do you know any good places to try and get a gig?”

“Oh, just about anywhere in town,” Micky said, pushing buttons on the cash register. “If you play piano like that, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding something.”

“That’s real nice of you to say,” Peter said as he zipped his guitar up into its brand new case. “Do you play anything?”

“Just the drums,” Micky said casually. He noticed Peter was staring at him almost expectantly. “What?”

“I, well, y’see -- we’re both looking for jobs, Davy and I, so we can make money while we look for gigs. Do you… possibly have any openings here? Or anywhere else that you know of? I’d really hate to be bagging groceries or something awful like that. This seems like a real groovy place to work.”

Micky didn’t know what to say for a moment. He wasn’t expecting him to ask that.

“Oh! Well, I’d have to ask my boss. He’s in the back messing with some of the instruments--”

“--messing? I prefer to call it fine-tuning.” A tall, middle-aged man with a thick beard to match his thick black glasses, emerged from a doorway. “Who’s this?”

“My name’s Peter. Me and my friend are looking for a job and were wondering if you’ve got any for us here.”

“Hm.” Al scratched his beard. “And where is this friend?”

Peter turned around. Davy was across the store, one hand in his pocket and the other flipping through records. 

“Him,” he pointed. _Though I’m not so sure how much he’d like working behind a counter._

“Peter can play the piano _and_ the guitar _and_ the banjo,” Micky said proudly, as if Peter were his own son. At least it seemed to catch Al’s attention.

“But can he play them _well?”_ Al asked, a bit cheeky.

“I can show you, if you’d like,” Peter said, unzipping the guitar he had just finished putting away. He had barely pulled the zipper down halfway before Al stopped him.

“I’m only kidding, son. This is a retail job, not an audition. Have you worked retail before?”

“When I was in high school I was a busboy.”

“That’s not… exactly retail,” Al said. “Are you good with people?”

“Oh, I’m wonderful with people!” Peter said sincerely. “Micky and I are already best friends.”

Micky nodded eagerly. “Yeah, Al. It’s like we’ve known each other all our lives.”

Al laughed. “Yeah, Micky’s a _real_ hard kid to impress. What about music knowledge? Though for a fella proficient in _three_ different instruments, that may be a stupid question.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I always ask stupid questions,” Peter grinned. 

“He’s great on piano, Al, you should hear him,” Micky cut in. “He moved here from New York just for music.”

“Wow. A cross-country move, huh?” Al stared at Peter for a few moments, waiting for his facade to drop. Of course, it never did.

“Huh. Well, kiddo, you seem like a nice young man. But I don’t really have the… financial capacity to hire anyone else full-time right now. Maybe in a month or two, but not now.”

“Oh, that’s alright! I don’t have to be here _all_ the time. Me and Davy, we’re a band, you see, so we’ll be looking for gigs too.”

Al raised an eyebrow. “You’d be willing to volunteer?”

Peter nodded. “Anything to keep busy.”

Al nodded. “Well, Peter, that sounds like a fine arrangement. But let’s go back to my office for a few minutes to discuss,” he said, leading Peter to a back door. “See, there are these things called state labor laws…”

Davy was watching this unfold the entire time. He found himself impatiently tapping his foot with his arms crossed like an annoyed parent. Maybe that’s how he felt. _Annoyed_ . Peter didn’t even have to _try_ and he already got a gig and a job on day one. But he wasn’t mad at him for it. No, he was jealous. He was making mental notes on the things Peter was doing that made everyone love him so much. He was friendly. So was Davy. He had a nice smile. So did Davy. He was talented. So was Davy…

“Doesn’t seem like you wanted a job here all that badly.”

Davy jumped. It was like Micky had materialized right next to him.

“What?”

“Your friend. Peter. He kept saying he was trying to find a job for _both_ of you.”

Davy shrugged. “You caught me.”

“Woah. Now you’re _definitely_ not from around here,” Micky said, surprised at the accent.

“You are the second bloody person to say that to me today and I’m already sick of it.”

“Woah, hey, man, sorry,” he held his hands up. “No harm.”

Davy sighed and waved his hand. “‘S alright. We just flew in last night. Suppose I’m sufferin’ from jet lag.”

“What were you in New York for?”

Davy scuffed his boots on the floor. “Tried to make it on Broadway.” He gestured to himself, then to the store. “You can see how well that worked out.”

Micky’s eyes widened. “You’re an actor?”

Davy gave him a look. He didn’t think LA was the place for someone to be starstruck. “Tried to be.”

“What a coincidence! I’m an actor, too. Well, obviously not like a _real_ actor. I try to be, too, as best I can.”

“No kidding!” Davy said. “Do you do stage acting?”

“Well, not quite. I could never do Broadway, if that’s what you’re asking. More like… commercials, and things like that. TV shows, potentially. Movies, one day. Maybe. I like being behind the camera, too.”

“Have you been in any commercials? Am I going to see you on my telly trying to sell me a soap bar?”

Micky laughed loudly. “Man, I wish. Well, I actually did this cereal commercial once. I played this kid’s older brother who kept eating all the corn flakes. It was terrible. I had to act like a real jerk. Me! A jerk! Can you imagine?”

Davy smiled. “A real testament to those acting skills, that is.”

“It’s not on the air anymore. And nobody wants to hire jerky cereal brother to star in their TV show, either.”

“Maybe it’s that wild head of hair you’ve got going on there.”

Micky’s hands flew to his head, patting his curls. “Don’t say things like that! They can hear you, you know,” he said, twirling a piece of hair on his index finger. “I always flatten my hair for auditions. It’s awful. I look silly.”

“You think _you_ look silly? Try ‘aving hair like this. It grows like mad. I’ll be confused for a bird one of these days, I’m sure of it. I need a cut.”

Micky didn’t really understand how Davy’s hair made him look like a bird.

“You should go to Damon’s barber shop. It’s where I go when this ferocious mane gets to be too much. If you tell him I sent you, he might give you a discount!”

“That sounds nice,” Davy sighed. “We need all the money we can get.”

“Are you really in a band?”

Davy nodded. “We're trying. It was Peter’s idea. But it was my idea to move to Los Angeles, so it balances out, I guess.”

“You don’t sound like you want to be in a band.”

“I don’t really know _what_ I want.” At that moment, Peter and Al came back out into the main store, laughing about something Al had said. Peter’s eyes were shining and only seemed to get brighter every time he laid eyes on a new instrument. This really was his scene. It was great for him. Davy was happy for him, he really was. It made him hope that one day, he’d be able to feel that way about something. 

“But Peter knows what he wants, and we’re in this together.” He gave Micky a pat on the arm. “I’ll see you around here, yeah?”

Micky smiled. “Yeah man! I’m always here. Well, not _always_ , I don’t work weekends and--”

Davy held up his hand and giggled. “I get it, I get it. It was nice talking to you, mate.”

“You too!” he said enthusiastically, waving as Peter and Davy exited their store. 

“He’s going to start next week,” Al said when the door shut. “You mind training him? Kid knows a whole lot already. He just needs to learn about all the nitty-gritty.”

“You can count on me,” Micky said happily. He had a feeling he was really going to enjoy working with Peter.

* * *

“Peter, I promise, it’s going to be fine!”

Somehow, seven days had flown by. Peter and Davy decided they wanted to take the week to find a place, and they ended up settling on a small two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away from the music store. It was essential that they each had their own rooms, since that was a luxury neither was able to afford in New York. Even though their place was on the first floor, which made for a lot of noisy nights, their building was right next to the park, so the two would take walks there and Peter would play his guitar on the grass, just like the old days. He found that people were dropping change out of their pockets to him without him even asking for it. 

But now it was Monday, and Peter was getting ready to head to Chuck’s -- by himself. He obviously didn’t mind playing solo, but he had come out all this way to play with _Davy_ . He didn’t think his first gig right off the bat should be just _him_ , alone.

“I’m nervous he’ll be upset that you’re not there. I can’t sing!”

“Peter, how many times do I have to tell you, you _can_ sing.”

“How do you know? I’ve never tried to sing around you.”

“Oh, I can hear you, you know. These walls aren’t all that thick.”

Peter looked like he was about to pass out. “...you hear that?”

Davy nodded. “I do. And you sound _good_ , mate. You have absolutely nothing to worry about, you hear? You’re a damn great musician, Peter. People will love you no matter what you sing like.”

Peter gave Davy a giant hug, which Davy unsuccessfully tried to squirm out of. 

“What will you do when I’m gone?” Peter asked as he walked to the door and slipped his moccasins on.

“It’s still pretty early. I might pop back over to the music store and talk to that kid again. Micah.”

“Micky.”

“ _Mickey._ Right. Like the mouse. He’s an actor, you know.”

“An actor! Davy, that’s great! You should ask him where you can audition.”

Davy shrugged. “Maybe. I dunno if I want to be in dog food commercials. I’d rather focus on our band.”

“Whatever you say,” Peter said, slinging his brand-new guitar over one shoulder and the banjo on the other. “He was really nice. I’m glad I get to be working with him.”

“You start there tomorrow, right?” Davy asked. Peter nodded. “I think I’m going to look around some of those nightclubs everyone keeps talking about while you’re at work. See if I can find a club owner who isn’t bloody crazy.”

Peter chuckled. “That might be difficult around here. Tell Micky I say hi, okay?”

“You’re seein’ him tomorrow!”

“I’ll tell Chuck you say hi, too!” Peter called out as he closed the door.

“Don’t you dare, Peter Tork!” Davy cried, but the door slammed shut. Davy made a noise resembling both a laugh and a sigh as he fell onto the couch. The landlord had the place furnished for them, which was a big up-front expense, but it was necessary. The furniture was cheap and gross, but it was at least comfortable. Davy missed having a real bed.

After lying awkwardly for 10 minutes, Davy forced himself up. It was only 4 p.m. and the sun wasn’t setting anytime soon. He still couldn’t get out of his mind that it was 7 p.m. in New York and midnight in England.

“Wonder if that would make good lyrics?” he thought aloud. “No, no, that’s stupid.”

He opted not to put on a jacket, which turned out to be the right decision. When he got to the store, he peeked through the window to make sure Micky was still there. He was off to the side, chatting with a customer about something. Taking a deep breath, Davy walked in. He immediately gravitated to the new releases section and picked up the first thing he saw. 

“They’re a real groovy group, you know.”

Davy yelped. Why did Micky keep doing that?

“If you liked The Way You Do The Things You Do, you’ll like the rest of their stuff, too.”

“Y’know, you really like to sneak up on me,” Davy muttered, putting the album back. “Mickey, right?”

“No. Micky.”

“What-- that’s what I said.”

“No. You were saying _Mickey_ . Like, M-I-C, K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E,” he sang. “It’s _Micky,_ like M-I-C… K-Y."

"Micky."

"Yes! What's your name again?”

“Davy.”

“Ah. Okay. Davey.”

“No! _Davy!_ With no e, mate!”

“See! I told you, you can tell.”

Davy smiled. “Alright, alright. Point taken.”

“So what brings you back here, Davy with no e? Did ya miss me that much?”

“Never,” Davy laughed. “Thought it would be helpful to talk to a fellow actor. Y’know, about… acting things.”

“ _Acting things._ Hmm. Alright,” Micky said, leaning against the row of records next to Davy. “You know I’m technically working right now, right?”

“Oh. I can go, if I’m botherin’ you--”

“--No. You don’t have to,” Micky said quickly. “Not much happens at the store this late anyway, as you can see.”

Davy looked around. There were only two other people in the store.

“So. What do you want to know? Oh, do you want food recommendations too? Because I know the best place to get a hamburger--”

“No, no,” Davy cut him off. “I guess… well… where do you go for auditions?” Davy wasn’t convinced he wanted to ask that question, but he figured it’d be a good start.

“Well, my mom’s kind of like my agent, if I was important enough to have an agent. She finds me things. She was an actress when she was younger, but she doesn’t do that stuff anymore. My dad…” Micky looked uncomfortable, but kept going. “My dad used to be an actor too, when he was still around.”

“Oh.” Davy wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t his place to ask what that meant. 

“Yeah. It’s hard, you know. Trying to do entertainment. I’ve had, like, one or two real successes. It’s really made me rethink what I want to do.”

“I get that,” Davy sighed. “I’ve been on stage all my life, and suddenly that’s not what I’m doing anymore. I’m really not sure _what_ I should be doing.”

“‘S why I’m here,” Micky said, gesturing out to the store. “I like being around music, but I don’t think I’m destined to be a record store employee for the rest of my life. There’s so much more I should be doing! I just… don’t know what.”

Davy nodded somberly. It was somewhat comforting to know that Micky was struggling the same way he was, but it didn’t give him a lot of confidence that LA would be any better than New York.

“So I take it it’s hard business around here.”

“It’s _impossible_ ,” Micky sighed. “I mean, you were on _Broadway,_ for Pete’s sake. Surely you know how it is.”

“Of course,” Davy said. “It was… tough. New York’s tough.”

“So, like, did you _actually_ get to act on Broadway? Didja meet anyone famous? What’s New York really like? Did you--”

“Jeez, man, slow down,” Davy scolded, holding his hands up. “One at a time.”

“Sorry! Sorry. Okay. Did you ever get to be on Broadway?”

“ _Broadway_ isn’t just one particular stage. It’s… the environment. It’s a mindset. But, no, I didn’t do anything major. Only one or two minor productions.”

“Did you meet anyone famous?”

“There are, like, 7 million people in New York. Most of them aren’t famous. So, no.”

“What’s New York like? Do they really yell bada bing bada boom at each other?”

“New York's big. _Huge_. Much different than Manchester or here.”

“You’re from Manchester? England?”

Davy gave him an incredulous look, his eyebrows knitted together. “Well, I’m not from Texas.”

Micky nodded, sensing his annoyance. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been doing this stuff since middle school and I’ve had rotten luck. I even tried to form a band in high school. How about that, huh?" He playfully elbowed Davy, who winced and swatted him away. "But that didn’t last very long.”

“Oh yeah? What did you do?”

“I played the drums. And I sang. People thought that was weird. I was Ringo before Ringo was Ringo.”

“There’s only one Ringo, and that’s Ringo,” Davy countered. 

“Whatever,” Micky said, shifting his footing. “Tell me more about New York! You just said it was _big.”_

Davy closed his eyes for a moment. “I dunno, man. There are lots of people. They’re kinda rude. But it’s alright.”

“Rude how?”

Davy frowned, his hand absentmindedly going to rub his bruised stomach. “Rude like… oh, I dunno, man. I said it was alright.”

“C’mon, you gotta know! You lived there!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Davy said suddenly. _Yelled_ suddenly. The two remaining customers gave him a weird look, but continued their shopping. Davy felt his face getting hot from both embarrassment and annoyance.

“You ask too many questions, you do,” Davy said, tugging on the bottom of his shirt. 

“I’m sorry, man, I just--”

“No, _I’m_ sorry for comin’ back here. See you around, alright?”

“Davy, wait, I--”

But Davy was already out the door.

“Peter! Welcome back! It’s good to see you again. Where’s your friend?”

The restaurant was quiet. A few scattered people sat in booths and at the counter. It _was_ 4 p.m., so it wasn’t like Peter expected a big crowd. He hoped they would start filing in around dinner time.

“He… isn’t feeling well,” Peter said. Peter was a horrible liar. He hated it, mostly, and always felt icky deceiving people. Saying Davy wasn’t feeling well wasn’t technically a lie, so he was able to say it confidently.

“Oh, no. Sick already? Guess he’s not used to the LA weather.”

Peter didn’t say anything.

“Well! That’s… alright, I guess. You’re the one with the banjo, anyway.”

“I brought this too,” Peter held up the guitar. “Just in case the banjo doesn’t go over well.”

“Hah! You’ll be fine,” Chuck said, clapping Peter on the back. “Here, let’s get you set up.”

It took about 20 minutes to get Peter properly situated. There was a jukebox in the back corner of the place, which Chuck painstakingly pushed off to the side. There was a basic mic and a small stool for Peter to sit on, and a single amp to hook up his things, even though his things weren’t electric. Chuck said he could use the amp as a footrest.

“It gets more crowded after 5, I promise,” Chuck said. “You can use my office in the back to practice and relax until people start coming in.” Suddenly, his face became panicky. “You’ve… played places before, right?”

“Oh, yes. I played lots of cafes in New York.”

“Good, good,” Chuck sighed. “You can tell, I’m not so used to this.”

Peter gave him a reassuring smile. “That’s alright. We all have to start somewhere, right?”

Chuck patted his shoulder. “You’re a good young man, Peter. I’m glad to have you around.”

Chuck was right -- by the time 5 p.m. rolled around, almost all the booths were full. Peter felt strangely nervous. This was a completely different environment. What if they booed him off the stage -- er, off the stool?

“Good evening, ladies and gents,” Chuck spoke smoothly into the microphone. A few people clapped. “Please, save your applause. Tonight, I’d like to introduce to you a newcomer. Now, don’t be alarmed, you know the type of people I like to bring here. All the way from _New York City_ , may I introduce to you, the next Bob Dylan -- Peter Tork!”

There was a smattering of applause as Peter took the stage, giving a small wave and a shy smile. _This is good. They haven’t thrown any tomatoes yet._

“Hello,” Peter said softly into the mic. “I’m Peter, and I hope you can dig it.”

So Peter shut his eyes as he began to play the banjo. He was almost expecting to black out again, like the first night he ever performed with the Flower Children. He did, sort of. Closing his eyes helped with the black part. But he didn’t… melt into it like he had hoped he would. He still played well, and everyone enjoyed it greatly. He could tell they were anticipating the moment he would start singing, but after a while, they caught onto the fact that this was just going to be instrumental. They didn’t mind, though; Peter was playing beautifully and his new guitar was treating him _very_ well. He decided to end his set on the banjo rendition of I Want To Hold Your Hand, which was a smash. Some people even started to sing along. When he finished, those same singers stood up and clapped when Peter thanked everyone and met up with Chuck in his office. Chuck was so pleased with how Peter had done that he gave him $100 on the spot. Peter liked the praise. It made him feel good. Music was his essence and was always happy when other people liked it as much as he did. But he found himself rather upset on his walk home, even with a pocket full of money. Davy wasn’t there to share it all with him. Peter was talented, but Davy was _entertaining_ . He would have livened up the place 10 times better than Peter did. He certainly didn’t want to push him into doing something he was uncomfortable with, but Peter wanted to be happy, too. He shouldn’t have to compromise _all_ the time. Besides, it wasn’t like Davy and Chuck had bad blood. He just thought he was annoying.

By the time Peter got home, the sun had almost sunk out of view. The sky was a beautiful orange, and Peter realized how much he missed seeing a sunset unobstructed by buildings.

“David, I’m back,” he said as he slowly opened the front door. Davy wasn’t on the couch, but the door to his room was shut.

“Davy?” Peter set his instruments down and knocked on his door. “You in there?”

After a few moments of silence, Davy piped up. “Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

The door swung open, causing Peter to stumble back.

“No.”

“No? What happened? Did you go see Micky?”

“Yeah,” Davy said, pushing past Peter and flopping onto the couch. “That bloke’s worse than Chuck.”

Peter frowned, carefully taking a seat next to his friend. “What did he do?”

“He just… asked so many questions! He talked way too much! I could barely get a word in.”

“I know he likes to talk, but I don’t think he’s _that_ bad.”

Davy shot him a look, but didn’t fight. 

“What did he ask?”

“...well, we were talking about how we both really don’t know what we’re doing. And it didn’t make me feel all that great, so I might have… taken it out on him.”

“But what did he _ask_ _?”_ Peter repeated.

“He kept… he kept asking how New York was. How the people were, I think.” Davy glanced down at his chest. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Peter nodded in sudden understanding. “It’s not his fault, you know.”

“I know, I _know_. It just… feels weird trusting strangers.”

“You trust me.”

“That’s different! You’re… _you_ . You’d never hurt a fly. You’re nothing like--like _these_ people.”

“And what are these people like?”

“...Loud. Obnoxious. Annoying. Invasive.”

“That’s strange, because I see them as kind, caring and interested in helping out others.”

Davy was silent.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but most people don’t want to hurt you. Especially in California. They’re all about peace and love, and they dig the mission. Even if Micky’s loud, he’s just trying to be nice. It’s different here, and it’s for the better. Can’t you feel the warmth?”

“You mean the fact that it’s 70 degrees in April?”

“No! The _feeling_ , man. Everyone smiles at you, don’t you see? Everyone is loving. Everyone here is making the world shine.”

Davy sniffed a laugh. “That’s so corny.”

“It’s the truth!” 

“ _You_ should be the one writin’ lyrics. ‘Making the world shine.’ My god.”

“See, there’s the Davy I know and love,” Peter smiled. 

“I’m sorry,” Davy said, sinking into the cushions. “I’ve been a real arse since we got here.”

“You sure have.”

Davy snickered. “Okay, I get it. I should probably apologize to Micky. I was pretty mean to him.”

“I think you should take the day tomorrow to rest, Davy. I can tell him you feel bad when I see him.”

“You sure?”

Peter nodded. “On one condition. You have to come play with me at Chuck’s this Thursday.”

“I…” Davy was going to protest, but stopped. The same reason he disliked Chuck was the same reason he got mad at Micky, and they both just determined that he was silly for doing that. There was no _real_ reason he shouldn’t want to play there. But for whatever reason, the place made him feel… lesser. Like he was compromising when there were far better options. 

“Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go there with you Thursday, but _only_ then, okay? I really want to try and find better places to play. I have standards, y’know.”

“And Chuck’s doesn’t meet those standards?”

Davy shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I promise I’ll stop moping around and actually find us more gigs.”

“Pinky promise?”

Davy laughed when Peter stuck his pinky in his face. “What are we, five?”

“Sure are!” Peter said, grabbing Davy’s hand. 

“Okay, okay.” Davy and Peter locked fingers. “Pinky promise.”

* * *

The weeks after that went much better for the pair. Davy actually enjoyed his time at Chuck’s, even if he did feel a little ridiculous trying to dance around in the corner of a diner. He realized how _fun_ it was being a band, or at least pretending to be in a band. He was almost playing the part of a lead singer instead of actually being one. But Peter didn’t seem to notice, or care. Neither did the crowd.

Peter enjoyed the music store. He was kind to the customers and was able to, at the very least, show them where the correct records were. The money stuff didn’t really come to him as easily as he’d wanted it to, but Micky insisted he’d take care of it as long as Peter took care of restocking. Peter was under strict instructions, though, to not mess with the junk shelves. That was Micky’s domain. 

Over time, Al had realized that Peter was a genius when it came to instruments. Al spent most of his time in the back room fine-tuning them, but it was a long process and it usually took him a few days to be satisfied with fixing one guitar. Eventually figuring out that Peter was proficient in just about everything he touched, he enlisted his help in the matter. He was struggling to fix a customer’s broken guitar, but Peter was able to identify the problem almost immediately. Al appreciated how gentle and unimposing Peter was. He really took his time, which is something Al didn’t think Micky could do. He knew Micky liked to tinker and build things, but messing with something was far different than fixing it. He had a reputation to uphold.

Davy hadn’t been as successful as Peter; a trend that still frustrated him, but he was slowly learning to live with it. He had really bonded with Peter over the last couple months because Peter was so easy to bond with. After growing up in a world of actors where the only goal was to be the best, Davy was drawn to Peter because of his sincerity. He didn’t have to choose his words carefully around him. Peter was a genuine person, and Davy had hardly known people like that before he moved to America. They could talk for hours about everything and nothing at all. 

Davy had found one discotheque that was willing to give them a shot, and their audition went swimmingly. The owner of the club was from San Francisco and had moved to LA with the goal of bringing the folk vibe down south. Peter and Davy were a good start for him.

“This place is real groovy,” Peter said as he tuned his guitar backstage. They were setting up for their first-ever performance as a duo. “I dig the neon lights.”

“And they’ll dig the love beads,” Davy said, playing with Peter’s necklaces. “I told you, this is your kind of place.”

“It’s yours too, man! This is _our_ place. Our first gig _together_. This is great.”

“I’m excited,” Davy said, shaking out a tambourine that an act before them had graciously allowed him to borrow. Maybe the people around here really _weren't_ so bad. “Look at this.” He shook the tambourine violently. “I’m playin’ an instrument!”

“Don’t get too excited there, mister tambourine man,” Peter joked.

“Mister tambourine man?” Davy snickered. “I think that’d be a real good name for a song, that would.”

“You better write it before someone else does.”

“Boys!” the club owner shouted. “Let’s go! You’re on!”

Peter put his hand on Davy’s shoulder, smiling at the Brit. “Ready, big guy?”

Davy slapped him on the arm with the tambourine. “Let’s go, you brute.”

The lights were just as bright as Davy remembered them to be. He was on an actual stage for the first time in over a month. It was nice to look down on people for a change.

“Ladies and gentlemen, _Peter and Davy!_ ”

Peter’s smile rivaled the brightness of the lights, and he melted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally! this chapter took me way too long to finish, between the holiday week and others stupid life things. this is easily the longest story i've ever written, and as you can see, i'm not even done yet. from the bottom of my heart, thank you guys so much for continuing to read! this is all for you as much as it is for me.


	9. Settle your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a series of short anecdotes from both perspectives as their paths start to converge...

Mike had gotten to Chuck’s so early that he had to knock on the door.

He saw that Chuck was in there, but it was only 6:30 a.m. Mike was so excited that he couldn’t get any sleep. Chuck’s face brightened when he saw Mike standing outside. 

“Nesmith! You’re here quite early,” he said, holding the door open for him as Mike slipped inside.

Mike shrugged, but smiled. “Didja ask?”

Chuck laughed at his enthusiasm. “I did. Said he’d be happy to come by and meet ya. In fact, he should be gettin’ here soon. I figured you two could have breakfast and get to know each other a bit.”

“What a groove!” Mike said. “I can’t thank ya enough, Mr. Chuck.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “A wise man once told me, we all have to start somewhere.”

Mike smiled confusingly.

“It’s George, by the way. The guy I called up. Remember I mentioned him yesterday?” Mike nodded. “He’s a good family friend of mine. Real great kid. He’s like my recruiter.” Chuck laughed. “That’s why I asked yesterday if he had told you about this place. He’s always referrin’ up-and-coming musicians to me.”

“Why doesn’t he just come here and play himself?” Mike asked.

“He’s a busy kid,” Chuck said, wiping off some coffee mugs and stacking them on a shelf. “Always working all these odd jobs. I think he’s a mechanic now? I honestly can’t keep up.”

Mike’s eyes widened for a moment. A mechanic. Just like… no. It couldn’t be. There are a million mechanics. Besides, his name wasn’t George.

“I know he likes to sing, though, and he seemed like the right guy to ask. I think he’s a great talent, that kid. I want to help him just as much as he’s helped me.”

At this point, Mike had tuned out everything Chuck was saying, because his eyes had landed on the figure walking toward the front door. A figure he recognized.

“Oh! I think that’s him!” Chuck said, dropping his dish towel and jogging over to the door. He pushed it open and didn’t seem to notice the blanket of tension that dropped into the room like snow falling off a roof.

“George! So great to see you. This is who I was telling you about,” he gestured to Mike. “Nesmith, meet George. George, meet Nes… what’s your first name, Nesmith?”

“Mike,” the curly-haired boy said bitterly. “It’s Mike.”

* * *

“You quit Chuck’s? Are you bloody crazy?!”

“And the music store,” Peter dropped casually. “I haven’t been going for a few days now.”

“A few days -- Peter, are you out of your _bloody mind_?!” Davy’s voice was ferocious. It reflected the exact way he felt inside. He wanted to punch Peter in the face.

Peter shrugged. “I want to focus on _our band_ , Davy. We’re doing really well.”

“Playing _one club once a week_ isn’t doing _well_ , Peter,” Davy spat. “We need the money for rent!”

“We have plenty of money,” Peter countered. “I can’t concentrate on _us_ when I’m worrying about the store or Chuck’s.”

Davy was so angry he couldn’t even speak. He shot up from his spot on the couch and dramatically flung his arms around.

“Davy, why are you so upset? I thought you would be happy.”

“Happy? What made you think I would be _happy_ about this?! We had stability! And you threw it all away for _what_?”

“...For _us_ , Davy. We didn’t move all the way out here just so I could have Al slip me money under the table for selling records to people. We’re trying to make something of ourselves here! I thought that’s what you wanted!”

“I thought playin’ gigs at cafe’s is what _you_ wanted! _I_ want to be successful! We can’t have success without stability.”

“We can’t have success if I’m too busy to be doing anything!”

Peter didn’t notice, but he was now standing up and was face-to-face with Davy -- well, as much as he could be. He had subconsciously marched right up to him and pressed himself up to the shorter man, using his height to get his message across. When he looked down at Davy, he could see how angry he was. But he could also see how _scared_ he was. Realizing what he was doing, he backed away.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly, sinking into the couch. “I got carried away.”

Davy sighed, hugging himself and plopping down next to Peter. “No, no. I was provokin’ you.” There was a beat of awkward silence. “I just… don’t understand you, Peter. You get everything you want but you throw it all away for other people.”

Peter… didn’t know what to say. The truth was, Peter wasn't used to getting what he wanted. Back at home, his parents took so many subtle digs at his musical ambitions that even when he played gigs, he never felt satisfied at the end of the day. The only thing that would ever make Peter truly happy was making _others_ happy, and that was what music did. Peter always did things for others first, but that’s usually because the other party in question always benefited from it. Davy, however, always seemed to act sour toward Peter’s acts of goodwill. 

“Sometimes other people are worth it, David.” Peter spoke softly, like he was trying to lure a scared cat out from under a box. “It’s not about me.”

“It _should_ be,” Davy said. “I… I just want you to be happy, mate. I don’t want you makin’ decisions because you think it’ll make _me_ happy.”

“That’s not why I do things,” Peter protested, though he wasn’t sure if he really meant it. “I quit the store because it was a drag, and I quit Chuck’s because I want to move on. It’s been three months since we’ve been here, David. And what do we have to show for it?”

Davy couldn’t say anything.

“I’m… I care about being successful, Davy. I understand. But if we’re not digging it, then what’s the point, man? I’m happy right now. And when other people are happy, that makes _me_ happy. But you’re not happy, are you?”

Silence.

“I do things for _us_ because we’re in this together. I’m with you all the way down the line, man.”

Davy smiled shyly. He felt like he was getting lectured by his parents.

“You’re the most talented, amazing person I know,” Peter said suddenly. “You deserve to be successful. I want to help make that happen. So let’s make it happen, dig?”

Davy smiled. He didn’t know how he got so lucky finding Peter. “Dig.”

* * *

“George…” Mike whispered to himself. No. That was _Micky_.

“Oh. You two know each other?” Chuck asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” Micky said acidicly. “I know Mike.” 

“Well. Um.” Chuck cleared his throat. “Breakfast is on the house…” He awkwardly gestured to the row of open booths, silently begging one of them to move or blink or _breathe_. 

As if he were on a time delay, Micky suddenly brushed past Mike and sat down in the back corner of the diner. Mike immediately followed. Chuck quickly ducked into the kitchen.

“Nesbitt, huh?” Micky said as Mike took a seat. 

“Nesmith,” Mike corrected, very quietly and very ashamed.

“Whatever. I thought you’d be halfway to Alabama by now.”

“...Alabama?”

“That’s where you’re from, right? Some dumb, backwards Southern state.”

“...I’m from _Texas_.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that when you never talked to me?!”

Mike was silent.

“I don’t get it, Mike. I don’t. You said you’d be back. You said you’d come back. Do you just get satisfaction in lying to me?”

Mike felt paralyzed.

“Oh, and when Chuck called me up, I was almost certain it was you. I almost wasn’t gonna do it, but I had to know for sure who this mysterious _Mr. Nesmith_ was.”

“...I didn’t know your name was George,” was all Mike could say. Somehow, that was the only thing on his mind.

Micky was so dumbfounded he had to laugh. “You never asked, man! You never asked me… anything.” Micky’s expression suddenly shifted from anger to sadness as his head fell. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike said, as if there were people in the other booths eavesdropping on their conversation. “I’m… I’m really lost, an’--an’ confused right now. You’ve been nothin’ but kind and I’ve been nothin’ but an asshole.”

Micky slowly looked up.

“I… a few nights ago I got on a train to El Paso. I thought I wanted to go home. But… I’ve been writin’ lyrics, see.” He pulled out the notebook, forgetting that he had stolen it from Micky. He flipped it open to one of his many untitled songs and pushed it across the table. Reluctantly, Micky took it.

“...These are really good, man,” he said, almost jealous, as he scanned over the verses. 

“It’s not done yet. But I want you to sing it.”

Micky looked up. “Me?”

Mike nodded. “I realized that all these songs I’ve been writin’... I’m writin’ them…” Mike couldn’t bring himself to say the rest. How embarrassing would that be to admit? 

“...Is this _my_ notebook?” Micky cut Mike off, closing it and holding it up for Mike to see. Mike immediately turned red, like he was on fire.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I saw it on your counter an--”

Micky started to laugh. “Mike, I bought this for _you_.”

Mike was floored. “What?”

“I thought you could use a notebook to, I dunno. Write stuff. Like a journal or something. I got it the other day between the mechanic’s and the store. I guess I wanted you to have something that was _yours_ , besides the guitar. I dunno.Like a welcoming present. I saw it and I liked it.”

“Micky…” Mike tried. He had no idea what to say.

“Okay, I’m going to ask you something. And-- you need to -- just tell it to me straight, alright? Don’t put me on.” Micky took a breath. “If I invite you back to my place, will you stay? For more than one night at a time?”

Mike blinked. 

“I mean, you already were on your way back home and you just… came back here. That’s gotta mean something, right? Like, you actually wanna be here.”

Mike blinked again.

“Oh, oh! This is a long introspective silence! I already said those count as yesses. So you’re saying yes to me, is that right?”

Mike swallowed. “I… why are you doin’ this?”

“...Doing what?” Micky asked, confused.

“Forgivin’ me.”

Now it was Micky’s turn to blink. “It’s not like you killed my dog, Mike. You just… lied to me. That really isn’t that bad.”

“It should be!”

Micky pursed his lips and awkwardly looked up at Chuck, who had silently approached their booth with platefuls of food. 

“Thought you boys could use some grub,” he said, setting down plates of eggs, toast and bacon. Each of them had a portion of their own, but Mike had a few extra plates of sausage and biscuits. “And I thought you could use something that reminded you of home. It’s on the house, don’t worry about it.”

Mike stared at the food, almost not believing it was really there, and then back up to Chuck, who was already halfway back to the kitchen.

The two ate in silence -- well, Micky ate, and not silently. Mike continued to gape at the food as if it had a big DO NOT TOUCH sign right on it. He would have been in a trance if not for the unmistakable sound that was Micky slamming his utensils into his food.

“Whussa maffer?” Micky asked, mouth full. “Eat!”

It wasn’t like Mike didn’t want to. It was more like… he forgot how to.

Slowly, he reached for his fork and used the side of the tongs to siphon off a piece of egg. Like he was performing surgery, he carefully scooped up the piece and brought it to his mouth, giving it a thorough inspection before finally eating it. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully before something of a spark went off in his head. 

“...Mike?” Micky asked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Are you alright?”

Mike didn’t answer, because he didn’t hear him. He was in food-land now. Micky watched, a little fascinated and a little concerned, as Mike wolfed down his breakfast like it was his first real meal in weeks. Actually, it had probably been a lot longer than a few weeks.

By the time Mike chomped into his last biscuit (no gravy, which was fine, but he still missed the taste), the restaurant was officially open to the public. A few regulars filed into their seats at the counter, casting a glance over to Mike before quaintly sipping their coffee. As soon as Mike realized there were more people arriving, he suddenly stopped eating. He also remembered who was sitting across the table from him.

Micky had nothing to say about it, really. He knew Mike was clearly underweight, but he had never seen anyone eat like that. Not even himself.

“...So, uh, I have next few days off,” Micky said, uncomfortable with the silence that had fallen over them. “Al said I’ve been working too much. I don’t have to go back in until Thursday.”

Mike nodded in acknowledgment.

“I was thinking… well, you probably need some clothes, right? I can take you to a thrift store not too far from here and we can get you some new things.”

Mike’s eyes widened. Mike only had $2 left, which meant…

“No, y-you don’t hafta do that,” Mike protested. “It’s alright.”

Micky laughed. “Alright? You’re still wearing my things. Which, by the way, you’ve made a point many a time that my clothes don’t fit you.”

Mike couldn’t argue with that.

“Listen, man. I know you’ve got this thing where you don’t think you deserve happiness, or whatever. I’m not trying to go all psychologist on you, but sometimes people just wanna do nice things for people. Let me buy you some new clothes, alright? And we can bring your old pair of things to a laundromat.”

Mike opened his mouth to protest, but he didn’t really know _why_ he wanted to protest. Why should he turn down all of Micky’s acts of goodwill? Just because he wasn’t used to it? Just because he didn’t understand it? It had gotten to a point where Mike had unintentionally hurt Micky to avoid feeling whatever he was feeling. And he cared more about Micky than he would like to admit.

“...Okay,” Mike said finally. “We’ll go.” 

“Ga- _roovy!_ ” Micky said, that room-brightening smile returning to his face. “Let’s go!”

“R-right now?” Mike asked. His head spun for a moment when he quickly got up to follow Micky out the door.

“Yeah, right now! We can do this and then I can go back and take a nap,” Micky smiled, holding the door open for Mike.

“Huh. A nap sounds good,” Mike muttered. Micky was already halfway down the street.

* * *

“See, Peter? I told ya, I’m draggin’ you down.”

“No, you’re not,” Peter said, giving Davy a shove. They were in the middle of another walk of shame -- a charming nickname Davy had chosen for whenever they got rejected from a club. It was their third one of the day.

“They think I’m silly, they do. All the dancing? I bet they find it campy.”

“I think it’s great,” Peter said, heaving his shoulders as his banjo started to slide down. “They don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

“Well, of course,” Davy tittered. “Just wish I knew why they don’t like us.”

“Maybe we need a better name than _Peter and Davy_.”

“Well, I quite like our name. It’s very folksy.”

“Maybe… maybe they don’t like folk music.” Peter had considered this, but didn’t want to admit it. He was committed to playing what he liked.

“Maybe,” Davy said, shoving his hands in his pockets. He remained silent for a moment.

“I… I wrote a song.”

“You did?!” Peter stopped walking and turned to Davy in excitement.

“Yeah.” Davy was blushing. “It’s nothing special, really.”

“David, that’s so great! I want to hear it!”

“It’s back at the pad. Do you think you could write a tune for it?”

“Do you think -- of _course_! That’s what I’m here for! Oh, this is so exciting.”

Davy shrugged. “I’ve kinda been writin’ it for a few weeks. I didn’t wanna get yer hopes up or anythin’.”

“Too late!” Peter said, his dimpled grin wider than Davy had ever seen it. 

“You’re ready to hang it in a museum and you haven’t even ‘eard it yet.” Davy dug into his pocket and pulled out the apartment keys. “I’m tellin ya, it’s nothin’ special.”

“You’re being too modest,” Peter said as they approached their front door. He put his banjo on his bed before hoisting himself up to the kitchen counter. He was bouncing around like a kid on Christmas.

“Might be the only thing I’ll ever be modest about,” Davy laughed as he dug around his sock drawer to find the lyrics. He didn’t really need to hide them, but he didn’t want Peter to find it until he was ready.

“Okay,” Davy said, glancing over to Peter. “You don’t hafta sit there, you know.”  
  
“I want to give you your space!”

Davy chuckled as he sat on the couch. “It’s not that type of song.” He cleared his throat. After a few moments of scanning the words over, he took a breath.

“ _I wanna be free_

_Like the birds flying by me_

_Like the waves out on the sea_

_If you have to tie me, don’t try me_

_Say goodbye…_ ”

Peter listened in utter fascination as Davy sang the rest of the song. He understood now why he didn’t want Peter to know about this. This was coming from the heart.

“David… wow,” Peter said, hopping off the counter. “That was beautiful.”

“Eh,” Davy shrugged, but he was smiling.

“I’m serious. It’s almost perfect.”

“Almost?” Davy asked amusingly.

Peter nodded. “Can I see?”

Davy handed the sheet over to Peter, who had already procured a pencil. “Right at the beginning. You say birds, and you mention the ocean. If this is a song about someone who’s… sad… you should make it more obvious.”

“Isn’t the whole point to be cryptic?”

“Not always. But I don’t mean obvious like changing the words to _I’m so saaaad_. What if…” he scribbled a few things on the paper and handed it back to him.

“...like the _blue_ birds flying by me… waves out on the _blue_ sea…”

“See? Blue means sad. You can get the point across more.”

“Peter, that’s… really insightful,” Davy said, almost surprised. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Peter _could_ be perceptive, it was more like he chose not to be.

“Thanks,” he said. It was his turn to blush. “This is great, David. A nice acoustic song that you can sing and I can play. All this really needs is one guitar. And maybe a few cellos, but we don’t have those.”

Davy laughed. “Right, another instrument for you to master.” He paused for a moment. “I… I’m really glad you like it, mate.”

“It’s very personal,” Peter said. “That’s what makes it great.”

Davy snickered, almost in self-pity. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only because I know you. If you don’t want it to seem so obvious, you should make it about love or something.”

“That’s always a good bet,” Davy murmured, scanning the lyrics again. He could easily make this into a love song. “You don’t think it’ll be weird? Havin’ such a slow song in our set?”

“Are you kidding? Not if it’s an original. People dig that.” Peter leaned into his room and grabbed his guitar. “I’m just going to mess around a bit. Tell me if you like anything.”

Davy had to pretend he didn’t like anything so he could keep hearing Peter play.

* * *

“Micky… I don’t know about this.”

“Come on! I bet you look fine.”

Mike did _not_ look fine. He looked like the rainbow vomited all over him.

“It’s stupid.”

“I think it looks _groovy_!”

When Micky told Mike he wanted to buy him some clothes, Mike had assumed that meant he would be picking out things he liked and Micky would pay for them. It seemed like Micky was intent on giving them matching wardrobes instead.

“How about this!” Micky had already forgotten about the shirt Mike was wearing, which he quickly unbuttoned and stuck back where it came from. The shirt was a faded, busy blue pattern with white cuffs and a white collar. It kind of looked like a bunch of leaves and twigs. It… actually wasn’t half bad.

Mike shrugged, which was his way of saying _get it if you want to_. Of course, Micky wanted to. It would probably fit both of them, so it was a double win.

“Mike… we’ve been here for a half hour and you haven’t picked anything out.”

Mike pursed his lips. That was because Mike had no idea how to shop for himself. Since he was part of such a big family back home, his wardrobe was just hand-me-downs and his older brothers didn’t really have the most colorful taste. Mike supposed it was silly to think he could find any neutral-colored clothing in a Los Angeles thrift shop.

“You don’t have to feel bad, man. These clothes are only a few bucks.” Micky gave him one of those genuine, warm smiles. “How about this. I’ll let you wander around yourself for a bit. I know the guy who runs this place, I’ll just talk to him for a bit, alright?”

Mike nodded. The intense feeling that flooded over him was telltale. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled. Micky flashed him another toothy grin before wandering to the front of the store. Mike looked around, overwhelmed by all the choices in front of him. He could actually… get what he wanted. _Anything_ he wanted. He didn’t know how to push aside his intense feeling of guilt to actually indulge, but damn it, if he wasn’t going to _try_.

He walked over to a row of collared shirts. Between the bright yellows and pinks and oranges, he was able to find a few dark blues and greens and blacks that were neutral enough for him to wear. He found himself subconsciously picking out items that would go well with his hat.

Eventually, he had racked up three shirts and four pairs of pants. He was worried that it would be too many things and Micky would tell him to put some back, but when he met up with him at the front of the store, he was all smiles.

“Yes! You found stuff!” he exclaimed, grabbing the clothes from Mike. “Ohh, very dark and mysterious. Perfect for you.” Mike blushed furiously.

After their little shopping trip, in which Micky also bought three new shirts and some small decorations for himself, the two headed home. Mike felt uncomfortable following Micky back again, but he was sick of feeling uncomfortable and weird. Micky was letting this happen. He was okay with it, so Mike should be, too.

“Thanks, uh. For the clothes,” Mike said softly.

“Of course, man! My sweatpants are not all that flattering. We need to get you some more stuff, but I think this is enough for today.” Micky chuckled to himself at Mike’s reaction, but his face fell when he realized just how distressed Mike looked. For the rest of the way, they walked in silence. Micky was desperately trying to figure out what he should say as they trudged up the familiar stairs.

“Welcome back,” he said awkwardly as he pushed his door open. “Your, uh, your old clothes are in the corner there. Right where you left them.” Mike had almost forgotten that he had just… put his dirty clothes in a pile on a stranger’s floor. He opted to keep them there until they went out to wash them. Mike watched in fascination as Micky removed a few small trinkets he had bought at the store and placed them on a shelf over the TV. The shelf was already full of porcelain elephants and Russian dolls and all sorts of weird things. Mike couldn’t believe Micky thought he needed _more_.

“Aren’t these cool?” Mike squinted. It all looked like a huge mess to him. “The tiny rhino goes really well with the glass elephant.”

Mike sniffed a laugh. He supposed it did.

“The offer to eat anything from my ice box is still good. I’m uh, gonna take a nap. If you don’t mind.”

Mike shook his head. He needed a break, too.

“Good.” Micky smiled and let out a huge yawn. “You should get some rest too. You look really tired.”

Mike didn’t know how he could possibly look any more tired than he usually was, but he believed it. A tidal wave of exhaustion hit him as soon as he walked into Micky’s apartment.

“Hope you’re still here when I wake up,” Micky joked, making Mike go red. He shut the bedroom door before he could see Mike’s reaction. 

Mike sighed. He couldn’t believe, after all this, he was back. _Back to square one_. He remembered thinking that square one was out on the street, but it turns out that he was wrong about that, too. He was getting a lot of these things wrong, but his most important mission was still intact. Micky had liked his lyrics, and as Mike put his head down on the couch and closed his eyes, he found himself excited to finally hear him sing them.

* * *

“It’s been two weeks, mate, and we’ve got nothin’.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he bit into his sandwich. “David, please. It’s gonna take some time.”

“But--”

“--No buts! Just enjoy your lunch.” Peter plucked a fry off his plate and threw it at him. It hit him right between the eyes.

“Hey! You’re a pig, you know that. Talkin’ with your mouth full, throwin’ food. Don’t they have manners in America?”

“Ah! I would never be a cannibal,” Peter scoffed, examining his ham and cheese. 

“I would have pinned you for a vegetarian or somethin’,” Davy said, sticking a fork into his salad. “Y’know, peace and love and animal rights and all that.” 

Peter shrugged. “Meat shouldn’t be so delicious, then.”

Davy snorted. “You got that right, mate.”

“Do you miss England?” Peter asked suddenly, catching Davy off-guard.

“Uh… yeah. I do. A lot,” he admitted, poking stray lettuce leaves with his fork. “At least the British groups are becomin’ popular in America. Makes me feel a little less lonely. What about you? Do you miss… what’s it called…”

“Connecticut.”

“Yeah. That place.”

Peter shrugged. “A little. I know it’s summer now, but winters without snow are going to be strange.”

“I’m not used to the sun,” Davy said, squinting and covering his eyes for dramatic effect. “Getting a tan will be nice.”

“I’m glad we’re here,” Peter said, shoving a fry in his mouth. “I mean, I’m glad it’s both new for us. I feel a little less lonely, too.”

“Did you feel lonely before? In New York?”

“That’s a complicated question.”

“So you won’t answer it then?”

Peter shook his head. “No, no. I will.” He finished the last of his fries. “I didn’t feel alone, not really. I had my friends and my gigs. But being so close to home… I didn’t like it very much. It almost felt like my dad was just going to find out where I was and show up at the door and drag me home. Sometimes it felt like I didn’t really belong there when I thought about my parents too much. That’s really when I felt lonely.”

Davy sniffed. “Everyone’s got daddy issues, it looks like.” He remembered what Micky had said to him a few weeks ago.

“You never talk about your father, Davy.”

“‘S because I barely know him. There’s nothin’ to talk about.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Davy waved his hand, forgetting that he was holding his fork and flinging a few pieces of lettuce across the table. “I don’t get upset about it because he doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s neutral, really.” Though Peter could see that Davy’s face was anything but neutral.

“So do you miss the music store?” Davy asked, desperate to change the subject. “And the crazy bloke you worked with.” Peter had come home and told Davy stories of what Micky was like. Davy figured he could boil Micky down to three things: crazy, loud and talkative. 

“I miss Micky,” Peter said, looking at a few passersby out the window before turning back to Davy. “He was real funny. Always making jokes. He did a real good impression of this guy who talked about rats all the time.”

Davy raised an eyebrow. “And who would that be?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. But it sounded just like him!”

“I feel bad, you know. I haven’t talked to him since that day I got all mad at him.”

Peter thought for a moment, and a thought popped into his head. “We should ask him to hang out with us!” Peter said excitedly. “He’s from LA. He knows everything about everyone. He could help us find some gigs, I bet.”

At this, Davy perked up. “You think?”

“Oh yeah. At the very least, he’d be able to point us in the right direction. And you can properly apologize to him, if you still feel bad about everything.”

“That’s… not a bad idea, Peter,” Davy said. “He used to be in a band, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He told me. Said he played the drums and sang and then made a bad joke about being Ringo.”

Peter frowned. “There’s only one Ringo, and that’s Ringo.”

“That’s what I said! Thank you!” Davy stuck his hands out. “Well, bad jokes aside. I think that’s a great idea. It’s all about the people you know, you know!

“I do know.” Peter grinned. “I’ll go to the store tomorrow and ask him.”

“Wonderful,” Davy said, scooping up hunks of lettuce and cheese onto his fork. “Now that we’re done getting emotional, I can finally finish my bloody salad.”

* * *

When Mike awoke, he could still hear Micky snoring in the other room. _God, even when he’s asleep he’s loud_ . He slowly sat up, feeling strangely refreshed. It was dinner time now, but Mike was so full from breakfast that he didn’t even _want_ to eat anymore. He took a curious look through Micky’s ice box, but reeled back when he caught a whiff of that goat cheese. Yeah, he wasn’t _that_ desperate.

He found his way back to the couch and plopped down. His guitar was almost calling him. It was like a magnetic pull, and soon he found himself tuning it up and holding the pick between his fingers with his arm draped over the body. If Micky liked his lyrics, he’d have to practice the song, right?

When Micky awoke, it was because he heard the sweet sound of an acoustic guitar floating to his ears. He thought he was dreaming it, for a moment, and was scared to open his eyes and lose the sound. He was overjoyed when he could see the ceiling above him and still hear the strumming. At first, he wondered who was playing music so loud that he could hear it through his walls. Then he remembered who was in his living room.

He shot out of bed and reached for the doorknob, but stopped. Here, right now, he was witnessing Mike in his purest form -- alone. And he knew better than to disturb him. He was probably really enjoying this time to himself, and Micky wanted to honor that. That didn’t stop him, though, from pressing his ear to the door and just _listening_. Mike’s playing was downright beautiful. Micky didn’t know how else to describe it. He wished he had a dictionary to look up better words. He figured that whenever he got to heaven (since he was definitely going to heaven), this would be its soundtrack. This would be the music he fell asleep to every night. This would be the music that would remind him everything’s okay.

“ _What am I doin’ hangin’ ‘round… I should be on -- on that train and gone…”_

Micky nearly fell over. Mike was singing. Mike was _singing_ . _Mike was singing!_ He was barely paying attention to the words. He was listening to Mike craft a song right in front of him. This must be what it felt like when George Martin heard the Beatles for the first time, except Micky knew right away how good Mike was. He didn’t need him to rag on his tie.

Almost without thinking, Micky’s hand found the doorknob and twisted it open. Mike immediately looked up and stopped playing. His face looked like his parents had just walked in on him with a girl in bed.

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t want you to stop or anything but I heard you playing and WOW you are really, really good and I’ve been listening to you play for the last 10 minutes or so and it was so good I just leaned against my door and listened and then you started singing and it was AMAZING and I just couldn’t stop myself.”

Mike took that all in once the words caught up to him. Micky sure had a thing for spying on people…

“I’m sorry, I really wanted you to have your moment, you sounded so good. I can go back in my room and--”

“Y’don’t have to,” Mike said, loud enough for Micky to hear. His face was burning and he felt stupid, but this was a good way to ask Micky to actually sing his song without having to be too awkward about it. He nodded his head over to the couch and watched Micky cautiously as he took a seat. Mike handed him the notebook with a song simply titled _Somewhere_.

“‘S a work in progress,” Mike said, sounding almost ashamed. “I just gave it a title 10 minutes ago.”

“I like it,” Micky said, scanning over the lyrics again. “It’s mysterious.”

“Just like me?”

Micky let out a surprised laugh. Did Mike just… tell a joke?

“Yeah, like you,” he said between giggles. “You know, I have no idea how this is supposed to go. You’ll have to sing it for me first.”

Mike’s eyes went wide for a moment in realization. He almost felt _nervous_ to sing for Micky, which was silly given he was trying to become a musician. But he had been hiding just about everything from Micky, and the moment he played for him would be the moment he surrendered himself to this lifestyle. He couldn’t flirt with going back home anymore. It would be permanent. It would cease to be just Mike. It was Mike and Micky now.

He took a breath and began to sing.

* * *

Peter found his nerves growing more and more as he approached the music store. It had been two weeks since he just stopped coming in unannounced. He wasn’t technically a full-time employee, so he didn’t really feel the need to give a proper goodbye. But it would probably be a little strange for him to just show up after disappearing with no explanation. He had given himself the night to sleep on it and get over his nerves. He hoped Micky wouldn’t be mad.

But when he walked in, Micky wasn’t there. It was just Al. 

“By God, is that Peter Tork?” Al adjusted his glasses and strode out from behind the counter. “Well, well. Funny you’re showing your face around here again, huh?”

Peter blushed. Al was _not_ happy.

“I’m just looking for Micky,” Peter said, trying to ignore his eyes welling up.

“To apologize? Yeah, I’d do that too. Well, he’s not here. He won’t be for the next few days, actually. Kid’s been working so hard, I had to give him some time off."

“Oh. Well, do you know where he lives?”

“If I did, it wouldn’t be my place to tell.” Al leaned over the counter and grabbed a pen and paper, scribbling something on it. “You can phone him, though. I’m sure he’ll be _real_ happy to hear from you.”

Peter quickly wiped his eyes and took the piece of paper. “Thanks,” he mumbled before promptly exiting the store. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be going back in there anytime soon.

He found the nearest payphone and fished through his pockets for some change. He dialed Micky’s number. It immediately went to an answering service. Peter thrust the phone back to its spot and left the booth. That was a sign that he shouldn’t bother Micky today. 

“Didja talk to him?” Davy immediately asked when Peter got back.

“No,” he groaned. “He wasn’t there. And Al is really mad at me.”

“Well, of course he is. You quit with no notice.”

Peter sighed, blinking his eyes hard. _Don’t cry in front of Davy, don’t cry in front of Davy…_

“Peter? Are you alright?”

Peter buried his face in his hands and merely shook his head.

“Oh, Peter,” Davy made his way over to his friend and patted him on the back. “It’s alright, mate.”

“Al hates me, and I bet Micky does, too,” Peter cried into his hands.

“I’m sure Micky doesn’t hate you. Al always seemed like an arse to me anyway.”

Peter sniffed. “But what if he does?”

“Then he’s bloody insane,” Davy said reassuringly. He could tell his words weren't really helping Peter. He didn't quite know the best way to cheer someone up, so he thought of the ways _he'd_ want to be cheered up if he were upset. Suddenly, his brain hatched an idea. “Say. We should go to a club tonight, just us blokes!”

Peter looked up, his eyes red.

“Yeah. You and me, we can pick up some chicks. I haven’t had a date since movin’ here! I’m losin’ my touch. The Beach Boys sing about California girls for a reason, mate.”

“That song doesn’t come out until 1965,” Peter muttered. “Besides, the club isn’t really my scene. I like playing there, not dancing there.”

“Come on! It’ll be the perfect way to cheer you up. We deserve to have some fun, right?”

Peter considered Davy’s proposal. The last time they were in a club together… it ended horribly. Peter had forgotten Davy’s umbrella back in New York -- at least that’s what he told Davy. He intentionally didn’t take it because it reminded him of that night. But Davy was right, in a way. They hadn’t really had much fun since moving. It had been all work and no play. Davy liked to flirt with girls. Peter did, too, but he just wasn’t all that good at it. He supposed he could go out with him and be his wing-man. 

“Okay,” Peter agreed reluctantly. “We’ll go.”

“Great! I saw in the papers that there’s a new club that just opened up. They’re poppin’ up all around town like flies, these clubs. We should go there!” Peter nodded, not really caring one way or another where they went.

“We can ask them about auditions, too,” Peter offered.

“Oh! Yeah! That’s a great idea!” Davy said, full of renewed energy. “This is great! Finally, your friendly neighborhood bachelors, Peter and Davy! We’re hittin’ the town!”

Peter snickered. He didn’t quite see it like that, but it was close enough. If Davy was happy, Peter was happy.

* * *

Micky had stayed up almost all night trying to perfect Mike’s song. After Mike sang it for him, he played it through on his guitar two or three times before his nerves shut him down. He didn’t know why he was overcome with a sick feeling, but his hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t fret the guitar properly. Micky understood and quietly retired to his room to give Mike his space. But Micky was _obsessed_ with this song, and he didn’t know why. He liked the way he sounded when he sang it. He liked the way Mike’s guitar harmonized with his voice. It was like he was finally a real musician. 

It was nearly 5 a.m. when he realized he needed to go to bed. He slept in until noon, which felt wonderful until he remembered about Mike. He frantically got out of bed but slowed down when he reached his door. Quietly, he turned the knob and opened it just a crack. Mike was there, on the couch, quietly picking at the guitar with his fingers. He had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“Hi,” he said, almost sheepishly. Mike nearly threw his guitar to the side.

“Hi,” Mike mumbled.

“You’re still here.” Micky groaned as soon as the words left his mouth. _You really needed to stop saying that, especially since Mike flushes red every time I point it out._ _He flushes red anytime I talk about him at_ all.

“Sorry.” _I need to stop apologizing, too_. “I’ll-- I’m gonna shower.” He scuttled past Mike and slammed the bathroom door just a little too hard. 

_Damn it, Micky, you look obsessed. Well, you kinda are. That doesn’t matter! We can’t just sit around here all day. We need to do something. Mike wants to be a musician, right? I’ll take him to a club to hear some bands play! No, that’s stupid, it’ll just remind him of all those rejections. But what if it doesn’t? He’ll need to go back there sooner or later. Oh, shit, I’m out of shampoo_.

Mike waited for what had to be 30 minutes before Micky was done showering. As soon as he slipped into his bedroom, Mike ran to the shower and quickly jumped in, only to discover there was no shampoo left. He scrambled out before Micky could notice.

 _This is perfect. We can go out to get shampoo and I’ll get him a toothbrush and stuff!_ Micky burst out of his bedroom. _Too much, Mick, that’s too much_ . “I gotta get more shampoo. Want to come with me? We can get you your own toothbrush, too!” _Calm down!_

“Sure,” Mike said, rubbing his wet-but-dirty hair. He figured it was useless to refuse Micky’s offers.

“O-oh. Cool! Great! Let me grab my wallet.” _Tone it down, man. It’s just a grocery shopping trip. But it’s exciting! Shopping with Mike is fun!_ “Okay. Ready?”

“...I need to change,” Mike said, glancing down at his pajamas.

Micky’s face went red. “Oh. Right. I’ll, uh, turn around!” _And maybe take a few calming breaths, too_.

A brief breathing exercise later, Mike was ready to go. 

“Oh! Your new clothes! They look so groovy, man! So far out!” Micky said excitedly. _Way too excitedly_. 

“Thanks,” Mike said, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips. Micky matched his smile and led them out the door. Micky knew that the calendar was arbitrary, but it was the first day of September and it already felt chillier than normal. Mike was protected in his hat, while Micky just had his hair. _I wonder why he always wears that hat._

“Why do you always wear that hat?” _You idiot, you weren’t supposed to say that out loud!_

Mike blushed and tugged at the frayed ends of wool. “Dunno. I’ve always worn it.”

 _That’s the answer I deserve._ “Oh, okay.” 

Micky made small talk on their way to the store. He pointed out every single place along the way, whether it was a diner or a clothing shop. Mike was genuinely impressed with Micky’s ability to know every single thing about the stores and the people who ran them. Once they got to the convenience store, Micky immediately asked Mike what his favorite color was. “For the toothbrush, of course!” Mike didn’t really have an answer, but he was wearing one of his new blue shirts, so he said blue. He used to find it annoying, but it was slowly becoming endearing how excited Micky got over the most mundane things. He really did care about Mike. Why should that be a bad thing?

Mike graciously accepted the toothbrush, as well as a comb for his hair and a pack of razors. He scratched at his beard. He couldn’t wait to get rid of it. Micky decided they should take the long way back so he could show Mike _everything_ around town. He figured Mike had seen most of it, but when Micky got to talking, it was hard to stop him.

“...I get my hair cut here once every few months. It’s been a while, as you can see.” Micky shook his head, letting his curls bounce around. _That was stupid. Don’t do that again-- wait, Mike’s smiling! He thought it was funny!_

Micky took a breath, ready to describe the next place, but was so put off by what he saw that he stopped in his tracks. 

“Hmm. This is… new.” Micky was staring at a brand-new club, equipped with swirling neon lights and dark wooden paneling and a sign on the front door that said **GRAND OPENING TONIGHT! 6 P.M.**

Mike was intrigued. A new club meant a new place to audition!

“We should go,” they both said at the same time. Mike waited for Micky to speak and Micky waited for Mike. _He’s not gonna go first._

“I think we should check it out,” Micky said. “It could be cool! I’ve been working so much lately that I’m kind of out of touch with the scene. I bet all the hip kids will be digging this place.”

Mike shrugged. He didn’t really care how hip it was. He just wanted to _play somewhere_.

“Tonight?” Mike asked, more nervously than he intended.

Micky nodded. “If that’s alright.”

Mike nodded back. “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”

_Yes! Mike wants to have fun!_

“What?”

Micky locked eyes with Mike and blushed. “Oh, I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Mike nodded, more amused than annoyed. Micky laughed. “Oops. Micky and his big ‘ol mouth! There I go again!” _God, that was so embarrassing. Let’s just pretend that never happened._

“Gosharoony, this’ll be great!” Micky said. “We can ask them about auditions, too!”

Mike nodded. That’s really all he wanted to do, but if Micky was happy… well, then Mike was happy.


	10. I just can't put my finger on what it is

“Well, you were right about the line, David.”

“I told you! Everyone wants to get into this place.”

Peter and Davy were standing at the corner of the street behind about 30 other teens. It was 5:50 p.m., just 10 minutes until the new club opened up, but they had been waiting there for 20 minutes without moving, and the mass of people behind them had only grown bigger as the time passed. 

“I hear the guy who owns this place knows the Beatles _personally_ ,” a kid in front of them said.

“No way! You’ve got it mixed up! I heard that he got the Beach Boys to play here tonight as an opening act.”

“You two are crazy! I heard it’s the Dave Clark Five!”

The time would have gone by a lot slower if not for the entertaining teenage bickering taking place around them. Davy, who was still technically a teen, almost jumped in on the conversation a few times to start his own made-up rumors. Peter, who was 22, felt a little out of place amongst the teenybopper crowd, but seeing how excited Davy was to be here washed his anxiety away rather quickly. He was elbowing Peter and making remarks about every girl who passed them, and the girls did the same with their friends about Davy. Peter swore he could see stars in his eyes.

Eventually, the line began to move. The club was open. Right when it hit 6 p.m., the music started blaring and the neon lights started dancing. Peter instantly knew this would be a place that pissed off every concerned parent within a 50-mile radius, and that alone was enough to get him excited. When they finally got through the door, Peter grabbed Davy’s shoulder. It would be easy to lose him in a crowd like this.

“Look. There’s a table open!” Davy yelled, dragging Peter along with him. The two snagged what looked like the last open table in the place.

“This is insane,” Peter said, swiping the hair out of his eyes.

“I’ll say. What a way to forget everythin’, huh? Ooh! Look at _her_.”

Peter sighed, but smiled. He had to admit, it _was_ nice to be in a club to have fun and not work. He was still going to find out if they could play here, but for now, he was going to try to enjoy the night as much as Davy was.

“Well! Here we are.”

Mike peered inside, and a shudder immediately ran up his body. The place was _packed_.

Micky let out a low whistle. “We gotta find a table,” he breathed, leading them inside. It was a nice, open space with a stage in the back and a bar near the door. A wide dance floor was flanked on all sides by free-standing tables… that were completely full. _I knew we should have waited in line!_ He strutted through the crowd, avoiding the flying elbows and drops of drink that were scattered in the air. Mike clung to Micky like his life depended on it, making sure he didn’t lose his curly-haired friend in the crowd. Micky’s eyes lit up in surprise when they fell on a table in the corner, occupied by two boys he actually recognized.

“Peter! Davy!” he cried, waving his hands frantically to try and get his attention. “HEY PETER!”

Mike’s eyes widened. Peter? The kid who quit the music store for no good reason? The kid who forced Micky to work double-time to cover for him? Why would Micky want to talk to him again? Why would he want to even _see_ him? Mike could feel his blood boiling, and when he was angry… oh, boy, that wouldn’t be good. He didn’t want to ruin the night for Micky. They were supposed to be having _fun_. But how could Mike have fun around the kid who abandoned Micky like he did? He needed to calm down, because if he met Peter right now, he’d surely blow up at him. Taking advantage of the dense crowd, Mike slipped away from Micky and darted toward the bathroom.

Somehow, through the chaos, the blond boy looked up and smiled when he saw who was calling his name. He waved him over to their table and Micky happily took a seat.

“Micky! I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Peter said with a nervous edge. He was still smiling.

“Peter! I didn’t know you were… still in town,” Micky fumbled, trying not to sound bitter. He turned around to introduce Mike to the table, but he was nowhere to be found. Micky did a double-take and turned all the way around in his chair. _He must be getting a drink or something._

Peter blushed. “Yeah, I’m real sorry about that, Mick.”

Micky pondered for a moment if he should get angry, but it seemed pointless. Peter had the right to do whatever he wanted. 

“Pshhh,” Micky hummed, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s fine, man. Water under the bridge, right? It’s so cool that you’re both here! I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew. I didn’t know this many people were gonna be here.” He laughed nervously. “This is crazy!”

Davy managed a smile of his own. “Yeah, Pete and I waited in line. We wanted to take a break from bein’ musicians for a night and just have fun -- oh. Ooh! Look at _her_!” Davy pointed to a brunette in a short shirt, miniskirt and white go go boots. His dog-like attention span around women was an endless source of entertainment for Peter. “‘Scuse me, fellas, but I’ve got work to do,” Davy said suavely, smoothing his hair out before striding over to the girl. Micky watched in amusement as Davy floated over to the girl like a cartoon character following the scent of a freshly-baked pie.

“Is he usually like that?” Micky asked, snickering when he saw how genuinely entertained Peter was.

“Yeah. We don’t go out much, but when we do, he makes it a point to ogle over at least three chicks.”

“Is he even old enough to be doing that?” Micky half-joked.

“He’s 19 and is living in a foreign country. He can do whatever he wants!”

An awkward silence fell over the two. Micky found that he didn’t want to keep talking about Davy -- or anything, really -- until they _really_ addressed the elephant in the room. It was hard for Micky to ignore things, and even harder for him to pretend something never happened. 

“Say, Pete, I really hate to ask, but… why did you just quit like that? You really left me out to dry.”

Peter sighed. He was hoping, very naively, that he wouldn’t have to talk about that. 

“The store was a drag, man. Davy really wants this folk duo thing to work, and I do too, but… I couldn’t focus on it while doing volunteer work at a record shop, you dig?”

Micky nodded.

“Davy’s really hung up on it. Success is really important to him, and he’s really given up a lot to be here, so I want to make it work for him.”

“What about you?” Micky asked, genuinely curious. “You moved across the country too.”

Peter shrugged. “I _needed_ to get away. Davy didn’t -- not as much, I guess.” He started to fiddle with the napkin dispenser, thinking of a way to change the topic. “Did you come here alone?”

“No,” Micky said, his eyes still scanning the room. “I came with a friend, but he just disappeared and I don’t know where he went. Probably getting a drink. Actually, I don’t know if he drinks. Maybe he’s trying to find the manager or something.” Peter cocked his head. “To see if he can play here,” Micky clarified.

“Play? Like music?”

“No, like cards,” Micky said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, music! He’s a guitar player.”

“Really? What’s his name? Maybe I’ve seen him around!”

 _Oh, I doubt it_. “His name’s Mike. He’s from Texas,” Micky said proudly.

“Hm. Don’t know him,” Peter said.

“I’ll introduce you to him! When he comes back, of course,” Micky giggled. “He’s a little shy, but he’s a real swell guy once you get to know him.”

Mike, though, wasn’t planning on coming back out anytime soon. He had found a nice, comfortable seat to himself inside the men’s bathroom. Dismissing the inherent grossness of his actions, he sat on a toilet with his head in his hands. It wasn’t like he couldn’t deal with big crowds, but right now, this was the last thing he needed. Things were confusing and he didn’t know what to do, so he at least took some comfort in being alone. He didn’t like it when his feelings took over his head. If he had been thinking logically, he would just meet Peter and pretend to know nothing about him. Instead, he felt this inexplicable anger toward him and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to contain it. To Mike, anger was a nice umbrella term that covered a lot of things. Frustration. Hurt. Confusion. Jealousy. Whenever he felt any of those things, he just said he was angry. Mincing it down into a million different sub-categories wouldn’t do Mike any good. You have to deal with each emotion in a unique way to solve the problems it posed, and that was simply too complicated. Why not just group everything together and deal with it all, one in the same? Anger was the deep rumbling of thunder, the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it feeling of static before a lightning strike. It was the smell in the air before the rain came down, the last gust of wind before the storm blows in. All of those things are part of the same storm system, even if they’re unique in their own right. The solution to avoiding all the troubles a storm poses is simply to stay inside.

And Mike was planning on staying inside his stall until someone walked in. Mike snapped out of his world and froze, trying to stay as silent as possible as the person, who was humming a lovely tune, turned on the sink and splashed his face.

“Oh, lookin’ _sharp_ ,” the boy, who Mike was surprised to hear had a British accent, said to himself. Mike perked up a bit, intrigued by the fact that this boy thought he was alone.

“Get this piece back here…” he said, turning the sink on again and presumably wetting his hair. “And… ooh! _Perfect_.” 

Mike leaned forward, his elbows pressing into his knees. He tried to peek through the crack in the stall to get a good look at this guy, but in trying to find a good angle, his shoe slipped on some water on the ground. His knee jerked out under his arm and he tumbled forward, smacking his head against the stall door. At least the hat was able to soften the blow.

There was a beat of silence. “Hello?” the boy called out. Mike, now breathing heavily, watched as his boots approached his stall. Knowing he had been caught, he immediately stood up and clicked the lock on the door, swinging it open and narrowly missing the boy’s forehead in the process. He kept his gaze locked forward as he speedwalked the short distance from the stalls to the door.

“Huh,” Davy scratched his head. All he saw was a blur of a green hat and a dark blue shirt. 

Mike burst back into the main room, frantically looking for some corner to sequester himself in.

He found an opening at the bar and quickly took it, leaning on his elbows as he surveyed the scene. The bartender tapped him on the shoulder, but Mike immediately refused. Even if he wanted a drink, he had no money for one.

He felt another tap on his shoulder and he looked to his right, ready to tell off this pesky bartender. He didn’t see anyone for a moment before realizing the person trying to get attention was almost a foot shorter than him.

“Hey,” the boy said, giving him a cheeky grin. Mike instantly recognized his voice and the tough-guy look was wiped off his face. “You were in quite a hurry to get out of there, eh? Weren’t spyin’ on me, were ya?”

Mike must have looked incredibly embarrassed, because the boy just laughed. “I’m joking. You had the right idea, hidin’ out. It’s crazy in here.”

Mike just nodded, silently and desperately willing this short British boy to leave him alone. Luckily, the unmistakable sound of high-pitched laughter disturbed their moment as a brick wall of perfume hit his nose. Mike was saved by a gaggle of giggling girls.

“Nice meetin’ ya, mate,” the boy called out as he was whisked away. Mike just stared until he was lost among the sea of people.

“Nice meetin’ you too,” he mumbled to himself. He looked across the room to Micky again, who was throwing his head back and laughing loudly at something Peter just said. Hmm. Micky seemed to be having a good time. 

“Hey. Do you want somethin’ or not?”

Mike whipped around. The bartender was looking at him angrily. He shook his head. “N-no, thanks.”

“Okay, well, you gotta split, then. You’re hoggin’ precious counter space,” she said, waving her hand.

Suddenly, Mike remembered something. “Oh! Wait! Can you tell me who the manager is?”

The bartender rolled her eyes. “Any complaints can go right here,” she said, turning around and pointing to her--

“Wha-- no! I’m a musician and I wanna ask about playin’ here,” Mike said, his cheeks pink.

She laughed. “Sorry, but we don’t take amateur musicians off the streets.” They both shared a look to the band playing onstage, who were… dressed in green dresses and green stockings with green-painted faces. The girl winced.

“...Come to think of it, boss _did_ say something about having an amateur night soon,” she said, taking a notebook from her front pocket and flipping through it. “Yeah. I’d check back in a few days. You know, not the first night we open?” She shot Mike a look, but it was friendly enough that Mike didn’t feel like an idiot. 

“Thanks,” he said softly, unsure if she heard him. She smirked, yelling at Mike to order a drink or scram before walking off.

Mike took a breath. So they _did_ have auditions. That was good. He could check that box off. But he still had another unchecked box, and that was the one that said _have fun_. Mike couldn’t even fathom what fun was like anymore. He could barely remember the last time he classified an activity as fun. He didn’t even feel like he was capable of it anymore. Micky, though… he turned washing dishes into something fun. Mike supposed he could learn a thing or two from him. He closed his eyes for what felt like a full minute before opening them, taking a long breath, and making his way back to the table.

Micky immediately spotted Mike and waved to him, a giant smile plastered on his face. Mike took the last seat -- the only one facing away from the dance floor -- and folded his hands together on his lap. His eyes nervously darted around the table.

“Mike! You’re back! This is Peter. The kid who used to work at Al’s with me,” Micky smiled, gesturing to the blond boy next to him. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Peter said, extending his hand. Mike reluctantly took it, giving Peter the kind of look that could drill holes through a brick wall. Peter’s face instantly fell.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Micky said, almost sounding concerned. “Pete’s a real groovy guy. I’m not mad at him.”

Mike didn’t quite believe that, but he took a breath and softened up.

“Micky was telling me about you,” Peter said, smile still present. Mike was surprised. “He told me you play the guitar. That’s real groovy,” Peter continued. “I play, too.”

“ _And_ the banjo _and_ the piano _and_ the harp--”

“--I can’t play the harp!” Peter said loudly. “But I would like to one day.”

Mike nodded stiffly, but he was genuinely impressed. This guy sounded like a real serious musician.

“Him and his friend Davy are in a band!”

“We _are_ the band,” Peter interjected. “A duo.”

“Yeah. They’ve got a regular gig at the Gaslight, Peter just told me. They’re trying to hit it big, just like you!”

Mike felt his face turn red, but it wasn’t out of embarrassment. 

“Hey, did you find the manager?” Micky quickly pivoted, thinking maybe that’s why Mike split off earlier.

Mike shook his head and opened his mouth to explain, but they were cut off.

“‘Ey fellas! You’ll never guess what I just found out! I was talkin’ to the bartender -- who is _smokin’_ , by the way -- and she said they’re plannin’ on doin’ an amateur night here soon! We have to -- oh, hey, it’s you!”

Mike’s face had run out of shades of red to turn. 

“You two know each other?” Micky asked, confused.

“We ran into each other in the bathroom -- if that’s what you wanna call it,” Davy snickered, elbowing Mike. “I’m Davy, by the way.”

Mike was still. He couldn’t move. Not only was he literally boxed in at this table, but he was mentally boxed in, too. His brain could barely keep up with what was happening.

“...That’s Mike,” Micky said, instinctively inching over to him. “My friend Mike.”

“He’s a quiet one, innt he,” Davy remarked.

“W-What’s this amateur night?” Micky butt in, desperate to get the attention off of Mike.

“Right. Well, she didn’t know much about it, but she said they’re prob’ly going to be doing an amateur night soon to find more local talent. Almost like a contest, really, is what I got from it. Whoever the crowd likes the most gets a regular gig.”

Everyone perked up at the word _contest_ . Even if they lost, they would at least get exposure -- way more exposure than they were getting now, and in Mike’s case, at all. But contests were stressful and rigorous. They were _cutthroat_. Even the talent shows Mike used to do as a kid were filled with drama and sabotage -- and that was just in Texas. He didn’t even want to imagine what it would be like in LA.

“Gee, Davy, that’s great!” Peter said cheerfully. “It’ll be like we’re on a TV show!”

“They’d have to be crazy to put us on television,” Davy muttered.

As Peter and Davy chatted about their gameplan, Micky turned cautiously to Mike. He did _not_ look happy.

“Mike? Are you okay?” Micky asked, knowing full-well Mike probably wasn’t going to answer. He didn’t just looked stressed or tired like normal. He looked _scared_. When they locked eyes, Micky could almost feel Mike’s emotions. 

“WOW!” Micky yelled suddenly, scaring all three of them. “Wouldja look at the time!” He looked down at his watchless wrist. “I _completely_ forgot, Mike and I have to, uh, unload the dishwasher! Yeah. Those pesky dishes don’t put themselves away! And I always drop them, which is why I need Mike’s help to do it! It was nice seeing you guys again!” Micky grabbed Mike’s arm and began to drag him away. By the time Peter and Davy caught up to what Micky was saying, they were gone.

* * *

For the first time, Mike led the way back home. He didn’t dwell on the fact that he was calling it home now. He didn’t want to dwell on _anything_ , really. He just wanted to get someplace quiet and familiar. He was surprised that Micky didn’t try and ask him a million questions.

When they finally got back, Mike immediately bolted to the bathroom, slamming the door just a bit too hard behind him. He sat back down on the toilet despite his brain forcibly reminding him what just happened to him only a short hour ago. 

Micky sat on the couch. He was facing the bathroom door, staring at it as if telepathically communicating with the boy on the other side. _Why did you react like that? Why did you look so scared? Was it something I said? Was it something Peter or Davy said? Oh, this is so stupid. He can’t hear me_.

Micky pondered over the various reasons Mike had looked like he just saw a ghost. After shuffling through various outrageous scenarios, he arrived at the same conclusion he began with: he had no idea. Because he _never_ had any idea when it came to Mike. Maybe the crowd had gotten him nervous, but it would be strange quirk for an aspiring musician to have. No, it was _definitely_ something someone had said. He clearly wasn’t a fan of Peter, but that was at least understandable after everything Micky had said about him. He wasn’t really sure what Davy’s deal was. All he had done was make a joke and talk about the contest--

 _The contest._ That was it. That _had_ to be it, Micky thought. There was no other reason he’d react so aversely. He stared at the door for a few more minutes, mildly concerned that he hadn’t heard a sound come from the other side. He contemplated knocking -- just to see if Mike was still there -- but he decided against it. The last thing he wanted was to be annoying. Maybe Mike would want to talk to him more if he kept his mouth shut more often.

So instead, Micky picked up the phone and dialed his favorite pizza place. He couldn’t get the way Mike scarfed down his breakfast out of his mind. He ordered an extra large pie with “the works,” which was his way of saying just put a bunch of crap on it and make it good. He knew the owner. It was fine. He just hoped Mike liked a combination of tuna and broccoli.

While he waited for the pizza, Micky reached over to his side table, picked up a few metal scraps, put his glasses on and began tinkering. He didn’t notice when Mike opened the door a crack to see if Micky was still on the other side. When he observed him quietly playing with some metal pieces, he silently shut the door. He figured it was best not to disturb him.

When the pizza finally arrived, Micky had managed to build the metal into something vaguely resembling a useful item. He graciously thanked the delivery kid and took a whiff -- no tuna.

He opened up the box and put it on the round table outside the kitchen, hoping the aroma would coax Mike out. He grabbed a slice for himself and was pleasantly surprised to find some olives tucked under the cheese. He sat on the couch, turned the metal around in his hands and waited.

Eventually, the intriguing smell of dinner made its way to the bathroom. Mike instantly felt his stomach rumble. He couldn’t remember the last time he even smelled a pizza. He had been holed up in the bathroom for what, 45 minutes? That’s an embarrassingly long amount of time. He almost felt afraid to leave the comfort of his private space and subsequently invite Micky to start hounding him like a reporter. Then again, his body had used up the energy from breakfast rather quickly and he was once again starving. The smell of pizza was too much to resist. Cautiously, like disarming a bomb, Mike twisted the door handle and shut off the light. Micky’s eyes briefly flickered up before he returned his attention to his pizza. Mike took a slice of his own, taking a seat in one of the tiny rickety dining chairs instead of on the couch. He carefully took a bite, as if any sudden movements would set Micky off. But after a few more calculated chews, Mike realized how _uncomfortable_ it was when they sat in total silence. Micky not talking was… weird. Unnatural.

Luckily, Micky felt it too.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, popping the last bit of crust into his mouth. “Sorry, that was really direct. But you are clearly _not_ okay. That’s why I got us out of there.”

“Thanks for that,” Mike mumbled. He meant it.

“...of course,” Micky said, a bit surprised to hear Mike speak so early in their conversation. “And-and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, don’t think I’m pressuring you or anything, but you looked kinda scared and worried and I wasn’t sure if it was something maybe Davy said or Peter said or _I_ said--”

“Micky,” Mike said, calmly. “I…”

“...you what?”

“I…” Mike tried again, but couldn’t muster up the words. What was he supposed to say? ‘Oh, I really hate that Peter kid and I’m insanely angry at him and I can’t explain why?’ That would _definitely_ go over well. “...just don’t do well in crowds.”

“Oh,” Micky said. “So… it has nothing to do with the contest?”

Mike’s stomach churned a bit, but he shook his head. He didn’t _think_ it was the contest…

“So you’d be alright if we entered?”

Mike hesitated before nodding. 

“Groovy! Alright!” Micky said, a little relieved. He glanced at Mike, who was staring blankly at the pizza. Micky leaned over and playfully pushed the box a little closer to him.

“Eat up!” he said cheerfully, grabbing a second slice for himself. Mike followed suit, albeit at a much slower pace. 

“I’ll go out tomorrow and get more details,” Micky said between bites. “But we should start practicing! Especially since I don’t have to go to work for another two days. Hey, do you think I should break out my drums for this?”

Mike swallowed suddenly. He almost forgot about that. He didn’t know how to write drum parts…

“I know, it might be a little loud, but I think it would make us stand out! I mean, Peter and Davy don’t have a drummer… I don’t want to just be the same as them.”

That… was actually a good point. Mike didn’t want to be the same as Peter and Davy. He wanted to be _better_.

“And you don’t have to worry about rhythms and all that. If you just play your stuff, I can come up with something! Oh, gosh, this’ll be fun, man! Mike and Micky, making music! We’re music makers!”

Mike found himself smirking at Micky’s enthusiasm. Micky instantly took notice and took a seat across from Mike at the table.

“You’re… definitely okay with this, right? You don’t have to say yes just to be nice, y’know.”

Mike nodded, keeping his gaze on the pizza in front of them. “...Yeah. I wanna do it.”

Micky just smiled. 

“...I’m sorry…”

Micky paused, cocking his head dramatically. “What? You’re sorry?”

Mike nodded, his stomach all tied up in knots. “‘Bout the club.”

It took Micky a moment to realize what he meant. “Hey, man, don’t apologize,” he said, momentarily closing the pizza box lid. “You looked out of it. I understand. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I went out and immediately regretted it.” He offered a small laugh. “Plus, I started introducing you to a ton of people so that probably didn’t help either. It’s my fault, if anything.”

Oh, great. Now Mike felt _bad_ for making Micky feel like it was his fault. He nervously twiddled with his thumbs, hoping Micky would keep going. He did.

“We’ll just stay inside tomorrow, alright? You don’t have to come out with me. We’ll work on our music. How’s that sound?”

 _Our music_. Mike’s heart leapt at those words. It almost didn’t feel real, but now it did.

Once again, Mike nodded. “Okay.”

Micky grinned. “Groovy. Now let’s finish this darn pizza.”

Mike finished his slice and watched Micky eating in amusement. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

* * *

Micky and Mike both slept past noon.

It was wonderful. Micky hadn’t had a true, undisrupted night of sleep in ages. Mike hadn’t been this stress-free since moving. Well, it was a different kind of stress now. The good kind of stress. Micky was going to sign them up for amateur night and Mike was _actually going to play._ It had only taken him a few months, but as his mom always said, better late than never. And he was finally breaking out of his songwriting slump -- a slump he was afraid to admit he was in. Being around Micky helped get his creative juices flowing, and Mike wasn’t going to complain about that.

Around 1 p.m., Micky left to go back to the club. Turns out he wasn’t the only person who caught wind of amateur night. The owner of the club had simply posted a note on the front door:

**AMATEUR MUSICIANS:**

**We will be hosting AMATEUR NIGHT on SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27. You MUST sign up before SEPTEMBER 20 if you wish to participate. All talent levels welcome. There WILL be a contest portion. WINNER will earn a FULL-TIME, REGULAR GIG at this club. Contest auditions will be held FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 18. First come, first serve.**

Micky scribbled down the dates on the back of his hand and ran back to his place, giddy to tell Mike the news. It was September 2nd, so they had a little more than two weeks to figure out a setlist for the audition. That was more time than both Mike and Micky thought they would have.

“...so we’ve got until September 18 for the audition,” Micky explained. “And if we pass the audition, we’re in the contest!”

“And if we win the contest…” Mike mumbled.

“...then we’ve got ourselves a gig!” Micky finished, jumping up and cheering. Mike was sitting criss-cross on the living room floor, practicing chord progressions. “Okay, so I think we should start by working on that _Somewhere_ song. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since you showed it to me, really,” Micky admitted, giggling a bit. He hobbled over to his hallway closet and pulled the doors open, standing up on his toes. “I have some suggestions, if you don’t -- oh _SHIT!”_

Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Mike looked up, and Micky was on the ground, rubbing his head, with two pieces of a drum kit spinning on the floor beside him.

“I really had it stuffed in there,” Micky remarked, blinking a few times before realizing the type of joke he could make. Mike saw the look of realization cross his face and quickly scrambled to his feet, getting to the closet and helping pull the drum kit out before Micky could even say a word.

“Thanks,” he said sheepishly as Mike handed him a cymbal. 

“How’d you fit this in here…” Mike whispered in disbelief. He almost couldn’t fathom it, but the closet was full of even _more_ junk.

“Help me move the table!” Micky called from the living room. Together, the two pushed the coffee table up against the wall near his bedroom, leaving just enough space to fit the drum kit in the center of the room. Mike sat on the couch and pretended to be working on something profound as Micky set up the drums. 

“Oh, I was saying before. I think it would be really cool if we changed the title of the song.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Thought you liked it.”

”Well, yeah, I do. But I feel like it doesn’t capture the song’s _essence_ , you dig? What if, instead of just _Somewhere_ , it was—”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Well, who could that be…” Micky mumbled, tightening one last bolt before getting up. “Oh! Hi Mom!”

Mike plucked a string just a bit too hard. Did he say _mom?_

“Hi, darling,” came a sweet voice. She was about the same height as Micky, maybe a touch shorter, with frizzy brown hair that curled up at the bottom. She was _definitely_ his mom. “I was in town so I thought I’d bring you some of Mrs. Wagner’s cookies and lemonade.”

“Far out! I haven’t had these in ages,” Micky smiled.

“Oh, what’s going on here? Are you setting up your drums?”

“Yeah, we’re practicing for a contest!”

“We? Who else -- oh! My, I didn’t see you there!”

Mike looked up. He was hoping if he kept his eyes closed and stayed perfectly still, he’d become invisible to the naked eye.

Micky ran over the couch. “This is Mike! He’s a musician.”

“Oh! How wonderful,” she said, putting the food on the table. “Micky hasn’t had musician friends since high school.”

Micky blushed. “Mom!”

“And I haven’t seen these drums in ages,” she said, observing the haphazardly thrown-together drum kit. 

“A new club opened up next to the barber shop. They’re doing an amateur night at the end of the month and we’re going to enter this contest! The winner gets a _full-time gig!_ ”

“A full-time gig! Oh, Micky, that would be wonderful. You’ve been talking about doing music again for months now. This will be just like that battle of the bands you did when you were 16.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Micky mumbled. “Hopefully we’ll win this one, though.”

Micky’s mom turned her attention to Mike, who was still sitting quietly and nervously on the couch. 

“It’s been hard for Micky to find people to play music with, you know. I think he scares people away with how excited he can get!”

“Mom!” Micky groaned.

“But it’s great that you’re here. He hasn’t taken out those drums since he graduated high school. You must have really inspired him.”

Mike glanced to Micky, who was furiously blushing with his arms crossed and looking at his feet.

“Well, that’s awfully nice of you, ma’am,” Mike drawled, defaulting to his southern politeness. He took his hat off and rubbed his hair.

“What on earth are you doing with that wool hat in the summer?!” she cried suddenly. “You’ll melt in this heat!”

Mike opened and closed his mouth a few times before words followed. “...It’s September, ma’am.”

“September is still summer,” she scolded like only a mother could. “You don’t even need a wool hat in winter! We’re in California, you know.”

“He knows, Mom!” Micky whined.

“You know, I’m all for the youth expressing themselves however they choose,” she said, ambling around the drum kit and over to the kitchen. She pulled three glasses from the cabinet, which did not go unnoticed by Micky. “Why do you think I let Micky keep his hair like that?”

“Alright, Mom, we have to practice now!” Micky said, taking one of the glasses and putting it back in the cabinet. “Thanks for visiting, but gimme a call next time, alright?”

“Oh, Micky…” his mom made a face before pulling him into a hug. “I’m so proud of you! Going after your dreams!” Micky tried to pull away, but eventually gave in. “I knew those drums would make a sound investment.”

“Alright, Mom,” Micky said, feigning annoyance. He was smiling now.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Michael!” she called from the threshold of the door. “You should eat up those cookies. Such a skinny boy!”

Mike embarrassingly glanced down as Micky muttered a few more words and pushed his mom out the door. 

“Tell Mrs. Wagner thanks!” he called out before slamming the door shut. “Phew. Sorry about that, man, I had no idea she was coming. I told you, she likes to stop by and give me stuff. At least this is actually good.” He unceremoniously stuffed a cookie in his mouth and washed it down with lemonade. “Sorry she had to make that comment. She’s always nagging me about how skinny I am. She’s just being a mom.” He took a bite of another cookie. “You should seriously try these, though. Mrs. Wagner knows how to make ‘em.”

He poured lemonade into the remaining glass, grabbed a few more cookies from the plate and handed them to Mike, who only took the items because there was no coffee table in front of him anymore. While Micky began to fiddle with his drums to make sure they were up to par, Mike sat blankly, holding the food and drink like it was all part of the same statue. _You must have really inspired him_. And what was that about a battle of the bands when he was 16? And how it’s been hard for Micky to find people to play music with? Mike thought he knew Micky, but he was starting to realize that, for all the talking Micky did, he didn’t actually say all that much.

“...Mike?” Micky said for the third time. “Everything okay?”

Mike blinked a few times before nodding. He looked around for a place to put the lemonade and cookies down before realizing it was for _him_ . He could eat it. Micky’s mom even _insisted_ he eat, which only made him agonize over how malnourished he really was. Cookies and lemonade definitely wasn’t the healthiest remedy, but it was a start.

“Good, right?” Micky said, finishing the last of the cookies. “And the lemonade is fresh.”

Oh, Mike could tell. He grew up on fresh lemonade and fresh sweet tea. This was good lemonade, too. Not overly sweet, not too watered down. The perfect combination of water, sugar, lemon and ice. He could feel the instant energy working its sugary magic. 

Mike pulled his guitar up to his lap and began the intro to _Somewhere_. “Uh, I can sing it, if you wanna do drums?”

Micky smiled. “Yeah! Okay. But I’ll need to sing and play at the same time eventually.”

“Yeah,” Mike mumbled. _I hope so. I wrote this song for you_.

So they played. And played. And played. It really had been a while for Micky, but after a rough start, he seemed to retain a base-level understanding of the drums. Mike was more than happy to play the song over and over again, because every take gave him an opportunity to tweak things -- tempo, lyrics, chords. He was pleasantly surprised that Micky seemed to take notice of these little changes and alter his playing. Mike suddenly realized that _this_ was it. _This_ was fun.

“Wow. We sound great,” Micky said between takes. He was chugging down a glass of water while Mike was re-tuning his strings.

“We really do,” Mike said softly. Micky could hear the smile in his voice.

“You think you’re ready to sing?”

Micky looked up, surprised. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Sure!” He jogged back to his little stool and grabbed the drumsticks. “Have you been writing down those changes?”

Mike handed him the notebook, chock full of scribbles and blots of ink. Micky squinted before finding his glasses. 

“Okay, you ready? ‘Cause I’m ready. Ohh yeah. I’m ready.” Micky tapped the snare a few times before staring at it for a moment. Mike’s guitar snapped him out of it.

“ _You tell me that you've never been this way before…”_

Mike felt goosebumps go up his arms.

 _“You tell me things I know that I've heard somewhere, you're standing in pl-- you’re standing in the places, and you're staring down new--through, through faces --_ I’m sorry,” Micky laughed nervously. “Can we go again from the top? Okay.” He didn’t even wait for a response from Mike before starting up again.

 _“You tell me that you've never been this way before, you tell me things I know that I've heard somewhere… I can’t give any reasons--_ damn it!” He stomped his foot on the floor. “Sorry, got tangled up there. Okay, from the top, one more time!” He began to play the beginning, but his hands and his mouth just couldn’t seem to get in sync. Mike looked up, watching to see what was tripping Micky up. 

“H-hey Micky?” he said. At this point, he had stopped strumming. 

Micky tapped the cymbal a few times before hitting it harshly, sending a loud crashing noise through the apartment. 

“What! Why did you stop?” he spat. 

Mike’s heart was trying to beat out of his chest. “You, uh. You’re singin’ too fast. And you’re drummin’ in the wrong time signature.”

If tension were a gas, it would have filled the room entirely. Micky stared in shock, his eyes looking wild, while Mike pressed himself into the couch, clutching his guitar like it was his child. Mike felt like he had _really_ cut the bomb wire now.

But after a few moments, Micky’s eyes softened. _It’s all right, man. Mike’s not gonna leave you again._

“Yeah. Heh, you’re right,” he said, fiddling with the drumsticks. “You’re right. Let’s go again.”

Once again, they took it from the top. But Mike could feel it. This wasn’t it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real life has been an absolute whirlwind lately so my inspiration has taken a hit. hopefully i can get back in the groove soon and update more frequently :)


	11. A long and involved conversation

Mike didn’t really know what to do. It was weird seeing Micky in such a slump. This was worse than anything he had been dealing with at Al’s. Mike felt an insane amount of guilt for setting Micky off like he did, but his critique was fair. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Micky wasn’t the best at taking criticism. It was an awkward couple days when they spent all their time cooped up in the living room practicing songs because Micky was missing beats and Mike was afraid to say anything. It was nothing short of claustrophobic. 

“Damn it,” Micky grumbled for the umpteenth time that night. “I’m so off tonight.”

_ Maybe we should stop for the night _ , Mike thought. He hoped Micky’s mind-reading powers were working right now.

“You look tired,” Micky remarked. “Maybe it’s rubbing off on me.”

“I’m always tired,” Mike muttered under his breath.

“Has sleeping on the couch been alright? You don’t need more pillows, do you?”

Mike and Micky looked down at the floor, where five pillows sat. Micky let out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Well! I think it’s time to hit the hay, yeah?” Micky said suddenly, putting his drumsticks down. “Who came up with that, anyway? Hitting the hay. I bet hay is way worse to sleep on than grass. I bet you’d choose grass over hay. You’re used to it. Well, maybe you  _ have  _ slept on hay, since you’re from Texas?” 

Mike just stared.

“Imagine if that was the expression. Hitting the grass!” he said, pointing to Mike. “Oh, that sounds bad, actually. Never mind. My mom would not like this conversation. It sounds like one big innuendo.”

Mike continued to stare.

“Right! It’s bedtime.” Micky pursed his lips. “Sorry, I…” he gripped the edge of his bedroom door, looking at Mike, trying to read his expression. But Mike was unreadable.

“G’night!” he said, forcing a smile before forcibly closing his door.

“...night,” Mike said, staring at the door. Well, Micky was right about one thing. Mike would definitely choose grass over hay.

* * *

When Mike woke up, Micky was gone. It took him a minute to remember it was Thursday, so Micky was back at work. Mike sat up, rubbing his greasy black hair with his equally dirty hand. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He rubbed his eyes. Why did he feel so weird? Like a sinking feeling. Maybe a shower would make it better. He was sweating, after all. Maybe Micky’s mom was right about the wool hat thing.

But the shower didn’t do much. In fact, it seemed to make things  _ worse _ . After he toweled off and got dressed, it hit him.

He was here all alone.

He didn’t have Micky to take him out to lunch or make him a sandwich or tell him what their plans were for the day. He was in his place  _ alone _ .  _ All day _ . Mike had no idea how long Micky was going to be at work, but he assumed it was going to be late. Mike didn’t know what to do with himself.

So he sat on the couch all day.

He had gotten up a few times to eat or drink something. He managed to convince himself it was okay to eat cereal, but beyond that, taking Micky’s food still felt strange. Micky was volatile right now. What if he accidentally ate an apple that Micky had been looking forward to all day? He’d be thrown back out on the street in no time. And forget about trying to tidy up the place. It was like organized chaos -- Micky knew where everything was. The best way for Mike to not anger him was to stay put and practice his guitar. 

Micky finally got home around 6 p.m., which was earlier than Mike was expecting. Even though they had played music together almost all week, he stopped strumming and put his guitar on the ground when the doorknob started to jiggle.

Micky stopped his humming when he saw his friend sitting stiffly on the couch. “Mike? You okay?”

No response.

“Have you just been… sitting there all day?”

Mike didn’t say anything.

“You know you’re allowed to, like, do things, right?” Micky laughed. He noticed the sink was completely empty. “Did you eat anything?!”

Of course. Mike had eaten cereal and milk. He had just washed the bowl and spoon and put it away so Micky wouldn’t know.

“Mike… I promise, it’s okay,” Micky said, pulling his work shirt over his head and smoothing out his undershirt. “I’m not gonna get mad.”

“But…” Mike started, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to bring it up.

“I know I’ve been a bit moody lately, but I’m just… stressed, you know?” Micky sighed.  _ Damn it, Mike has that scared look again. I’m freaking him out . I think it’s this stupid apartment. It’s so messy. He probably thinks I’m an animal. _

“Hey, do you wanna take a walk?” Micky asked. His voice was cautious. “It’s really nice out, actually.”

Mike looked up, and something in Micky’s eyes told him that this wasn’t just for his benefit. Micky didn’t always do or say the right thing, but he tried, and Mike appreciated that more than he’d like to admit. Mike stood up, which was his way of saying yes. Micky knew it, too, because he broke into a wide smile.

“Let me change real quick,” he said, rushing into his room and donning a bright, floral shirt when he reemerged. It was so bright that Mike winced when he saw it.

“Didn’t know it was Hawaiian night,” Mike muttered, giving the smallest of smiles. 

Micky let out a loud laugh as they went out the door. “I don’t know why you don’t talk more, Mike. You’re hilarious.”

Of course, a comment like that made Mike clam up, so as they meandered down the sidewalk, he simply listened to Micky ramble about anything and everything. 

“Look at that guy’s shirt, what an awful color!”

“Do you think dogs really understand what we’re saying?”

“The United States government wanted JFK gone, you know. It’s all a massive conspiracy. You’re from Texas, I bet you agree. You were there when it happened, right?”

Mike found it calming. It was like a talk show, but it was hosted by Micky and every guest was Micky and there was no real rhyme or reason to anything. Eventually, they found themselves at the park. Oh.  _ That _ park. Mike hesitated for a moment, and for a split-second, he started to turn around before thinking better of it. Micky noticed.

“Mike? Everything okay?” 

The sun was beginning to set now, setting the sky ablaze like a brilliant pink and orange candle. The pattern in the clouds seemed to paint a direct path to Mike’s old tree, which was… occupied, by a man with a long, flowing beard and a sharp jawline and --

“Blue eyes,” Mike whispered, staring wide-eyed at the man sitting at the base of the trunk.

“What? Who eyes?” Micky stood next to Mike, trying to follow his gaze. He noticed the homeless man at the same time the homeless man noticed them. Blue-eyes stared for a moment. He wouldn’t have recognized Mike if not for his unique choice of headgear. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to the pair.

“Mike?” Micky whispered nervously. Mike began to walk forward. Him and blue-eyes were now face-to-face. Eye-to-eye. Blue-to-brown.

“You’re… alive,” blue-eyes finally croaked. 

“Yeah,” Mike said as he looked down, his voice raspy but not as much.

“I thought you had… I haven’t seen you in a week.”

A week. Has it really only been a week? It’s felt like a lifetime.

“I was… I’ve been stayin’ with him.” Mike gestured back to Micky.

“Woah. You found someone. That’s far out, man.” Mike jumped and looked up when blue-eyes put his hand on his shoulder. “Congrats, man. You’re no longer one of us.”

Mike was trembling now, simultaneously scared and comforted by the physical contact. He could feel his eyes start to get glossy. “I-I’m--”

“--Your friend’s lookin’ at me weird,” blue-eyes said, allowing himself to laugh. Mike didn’t dare break his gaze. “I better go.” Blue-eyes patted Mike’s bony shoulder for good measure. “You take care of yourself, alright? You deserve it. I'm happy for you.”

The way blue-eyes ambled off into the sunset until his silhouette disappeared felt like the heartbreaking end to a tragic movie. Except the lights weren’t about to come on and the credits weren’t going to roll because this was real. 

“Mike… who was that?” Micky asked. Mike just looked ahead in horror.

“Hey, c’mon, let’s sit down, okay?” Micky was able to coax Mike over to a park bench. A cool breeze sent a shiver up Micky’s spine.

“I-I don’t deserve it,” Mike stammered.

“What?” Micky was more surprised to hear Mike speak than anything else. “Don’t deserve what?”

“It should be him. Not me.”

“Mike, you’re not making any sense.”

“NOTHING makes sense!” Mike blurted louder than anticipated. The breeze sent a shiver up his spine, too. “I don’t get it. Why me?”

Micky cocked his head.

“There are a million homeless people in LA. Why take  _ me _ in? There ain’t nothin’ special ‘bout me.”

“Mike, that’s crazy--”

“--What’s crazy is guys like him,” he gestured blankly out in front of him, “have to suffer on the streets while I’m eatin’ free food in your living room. I don’t deserve it any more than they do.”

“Mike… it’s not a question of who deserves it more or not. I just happened to run into you. I  _ wanted _ to help. I’d run a homeless shelter out of my apartment if I could.”

Mike snorted. “Yeah. Y’probably would.”

“But I told you already! You’re a groovy guy. I wouldn’t keep you around if I didn’t _want_ you around.”

Silence.

“But I don’t deserve it. I don’t. I tried to be a musician and I failed. You just took pity on me.”

“Mike! No!” Micky was trying his hardest not to stand up and burst. “First of all, you didn’t fail. You were only here for a few months! It takes people _years_ to catch a break. And besides, you don’t deserve to be punished for failing. If that was the case, I should be in prison or something.”

Mike raised his eyebrow.

“I tried to be a musician too. I tried to be an actor. But here I am, working at a record store because I’m only good enough to sell the music, not make it.”

“Micky, that ain’t true. You’ve got the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard in my life. I wrote…” Mike took a breath. “All these songs I’ve been writin’. I wrote ‘em for you.”

“I -- you did?”

Mike pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, yeah. That’s why I have you sing ‘em. ‘S part of the reason I came back here.”

Micky was floored. Speechless, almost. “You were halfway to Texas… and you turned around and came back… just for me?”

Mike absently traced his calloused fingers along the lines in his palm. “Tried to tell you at Chuck’s a few days ago, but I… I wrote all these songs, see, and I knew they’d sound best with you singin’ ‘em. Your voice, it’s special. Those songs would have been wasted if I didn’t come back for ya.”

“Mike, that’s…” Micky trailed off. He genuinely didn’t know what to think. “...you’re the first person to ever do that for me.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Write you a song?”

“No, no. Well, yes, that, too, but-but, no, that’s not what I mean. I meant… come back for me.”

“What… whadda ya mean?”

“...You heard my mom the other day.”

Mike thought for a moment. “Uh. I shouldn’t wear a wool hat in September?”

“What -- no. About… about how I’m always driving people away.” Now it was Micky’s turn to take interest in his palms. “Right after I graduated high school, I moved to LA. Everyone was convinced I’d become an actor. Micky Dolenz, class clown turned world-class entertainer. It’s even in my yearbook.  _ Most likely to be a star.  _ I had a band with high school friends, but I… I ditched them. Well, we all went our separate ways, but I bet if we really wanted to try and make it work, we could have. I was the first one who talked about leaving, and those guys, they looked up to me, I guess. It was weird. I have three little sisters at home, so I’m used to  _ them _ looking up to me. But that’s in a big brother kind of way. Not a leader-of-the-band kind of way.”

“I know whatcha mean,” Mike said reflectively. “‘Bout the older brother thing.”

“You have sisters?”

“...I’m the oldest of seven.”

Micky’s jaw dropped. “ _ Seven siblings _ ? Jeez. Need all the help you can get on the farm?”

“I didn’t -- I didn’t grow up on a  _ farm _ ,” Mike glowered. “It was a ranch.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Doesn’t matter!” Mike yelled before taking a breath. “Point is. Havin’ people look up to you ain’t easy. ‘Specially when you’re the first one to grow up. First one to leave the state. First one to fail.”

“Mike--”

“--I had to stop writin’ letters. I couldn’t keep lyin’.”

“When’s the last time you talked to your family?”

Mike shrugged. “Dunno. A month? Maybe two?”

“Mike! They’re probably worried sick! You can use my phone, you know, to call them.”

“That’ll cost too much.”

“I don’t care! This is your family! They miss you!”

Mike scoffed. “They prob’ly don’t.”

“Mike--!”

“You were talkin’,” Mike interjected. He felt exhausted. “You were talkin’ ‘bout your band.”

“Huh. Oh yeah.” Micky looked down. “So the band didn’t work, but I’m real good at making friends, see, so I thought I’d fit in to Hollywood real easily. You know, even growing up in southern California, Hollywood is still this fairy tale place. It was so far out when I was a kid and it still is now. It all seemed so groovy. Turns out everyone’s a real shithead though.”

“Coulda figured that.”

“Hah. Yeah,” Micky snickered. “It’s such a system, you know? It’s all a scam. I tried to be myself, I thought that would be enough. Turns out most people find me annoying instead of charming. Every roommate I ever had moved in and out within a month. It was like a god damn revolving door. I always think I’m funny or easy to get along with or whatever. But it turns out that everyone I meet finds out that eventually, I’m not enough. I’m never funny enough or nice enough or quiet enough. Eventually I just gave up on the whole roommate thing and moved into a place myself. That was almost two years ago now.”

“And you’ve been at the music store…”

“...for like a year and a half. When I moved in alone, I called up all my old high school friends, but they had either left California or were in college. For almost six months I genuinely had no idea what I was doing. I stayed inside almost every day and did nothing but play with metal and pieces of wood and try to build things. I had no friends. It was depressing.”

Mike’s eyes flashed wide in sudden realization.

“That’s why my mom visits all the time. She’s obsessed with making sure I’m okay. Sometimes my sisters’ll come, too, but they’re still so young. I don’t want them to see their big brother living in a shitty apartment all alone. I want them to be better than me. They  _ have _ to.”

Mike glanced over at Micky. His eyes looked red.

“You know, it was great when Peter started working with me. He was a real groovy kid. We got along so well. But he was so much better than me at, like, everything. Al liked him more. The customers liked him more. But the worst part is that he’s so freaking  _ nice _ that I can’t hate him. It’s impossible.”

Mike wasn’t sure it was  _ impossible _ , but he believed everything Micky was saying.

“I can’t ever seem to stop myself, either. I thought I'd made Peter flee the city until I saw him the other night. I talk when I get anxious, which is pretty much every moment of my life. I bet you’ve noticed. I’ll get to talking and I’ll just talk and talk and talk and before I know it, the other person wants nothing to do with me anymore. Kinda like you--” Micky’s hand flew to his mouth. “--I mean, well, it _was_ kinda like you. But you came back.”

A pause.

“...Why?”

Mike almost cringed at how lost Micky’s voice sounded. “I told you. I needed you to sing my songs.”

“...oh,” Micky sighed. “I see.”

Mike smacked his forehead. “No, Micky, I didn’t mean--”

“--First time anyone’s ever needed me for my talents, I’ll give you that--”

“--Come on now, you know that wasn’t what I meant!” Mike had raised his voice several times during their conversation. Micky didn’t really know how to feel about that. “Sorry. I just… I dunno how to explain. I ain’t good at explainin’ things that don’t make much sense.”

“Jeez. Is it really that mind-blowing to like me?”

“ _ Micky _ .” Mike’s tone of voice, almost fatherly in nature, finally got Micky to shut up. “It’s complicated. My life is complicated. Has been for a while now. At least… at least when I’m hangin’ out with you, it starts to make a little more sense.”

Now Micky was  _ really _ speechless.

“Music is all I care about. S’all I’m good at. When we play together… it’s special, man. It’s cornball, but there ain’t no other way to say it. I don’t know why you doubt yourself.”

Micky scoffed. “I could say the same for you.”

Mike thought about that for a moment, then laughed. A real, genuine laugh. Micky had never heard one of those from Mike before. He wanted to hear more of it. 

They sat in silence for a bit. Both pairs of eyes watched as the sun sank behind the buildings, leaving the sky purple in its wake. Planes flew overhead more frequently than people passed them on the sidewalk. It was like a meteor shower of slow-moving, low-humming light. If you closed your eyes and listened hard enough, you could head the faint crashing of waves out on the beach. The leaves rustled almost melodically overhead from the light gusts of wind. One by one, like candles being lit by a match, the park lamps flickered on, bathing the paths in a soft orange light. People walking by looked like silhouettes walking through a painting. High above them, in between the blinking lights, they watched as the stars dropped into the sky like raindrops.

Mike had never understood the beauty of the city until now.

“You never talk about your time out here,” Micky said softly, his voice small. He was staring straight up. “You know, in the park.”

Mike shrugged. “Nothin’ to talk about.”

“That guy… he was your friend?”

It took Mike a moment to realize who he was talking about. “Sorta.”

“I can’t believe he recognized you. You don’t have that awful beard anymore.”

“Was probably the hat.”

“Oh. Right.” Micky took a breath. “I was… really scared for you, you know, when I found you,” Micky admitted. “I mean, you’re really skinny, Mike. Way more than me. Even my mom noticed.”

Mike said nothing.

“Sorry,” Micky blurted. “That’s rude.”

“You say that a lot.”

“What? I never talk about your weight.”

“No. You apologize a lot.”

“Oh.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for. If anything, I should be the one apologizin’.”

“Absolutely not!” Micky cried. 

“Absolutely so,” Mike countered. “I’ve been draggin’ you down.”

Micky was so shocked that he stopped watching the stars and turned dramatically to face Mike. “What on earth are you talking about?!”

“I’ve been nothin’ but a burden. Sittin’ around and freeloadin’ offa you.”

“Mike, you’ve only stayed with me for four days.”

“Yeah! And I’ve done nothin’ to help. You work close to 100 hours every week and then you gotta come home n’ worry about me too.”

“You don’t -- Mike. You don’t owe me anything. Okay? You get that? You. Owe. Me.  _ Nothing _ .”

Mike turned around, facing Micky.

“Having you around, it’s -- it’s nice. It’s company. Sometimes it feels like you’re the brother I never had.”

Mike’s eyes flashed wide in surprise. Did he really think that?

“I had completely given up on music until you showed up. You’re so talented, Mike. I’ve never heard anyone play guitar like you. Even when you sat on the street, you sounded great, but when I heard you play in my living room for the first time, something just… came over me. I dunno how to explain it. It was like this, this supernatural force. It--it sparked something inside of me, I think, because suddenly I wanted to take my drums back out and play again. And--and you write--you write amazing lyrics. I always wished I was good at writing, but I’m not, really. I’ve tried a bit, but-but I’m much better at talking.”

Micky paused to take a breath, which made Mike chuckle.

“You… you kind of inspired me, I think. To start pursuing music again. I think about it all the time now. I think about our songs and our setlist and how we can tweak lyrics and notes and chords and rhythms and I just -- it’s all so fun. It’s just  _ fun _ . Even with this contest thing, I’m not even nervous. It’s going to be fun, you and me, up there on stage. Performing  _ our _ music to total strangers. It feels so _fulfilling_.”

Mike nodded. It  _ was _ fun. Three days of playing music together was the most fun he’s had in years. 

“And I wouldn’t even be writin’ songs if it weren’t for you,” Mike said quietly. 

Micky laughed softly. “Looks like we’re a pretty good pair, then.”

“Yeah,” Mike smiled faintly. “Guess we are.”

The two watched the purple sky melt into a royal black. Mike never noticed how many stars were up there before.

“Hey. Uh, if I sing you a song, can you tell me if you like it? I know I said I’m not really good at writing but I’ve been thinking about it over the last few days and I just came up with a little something so--”

“--Yes, Micky,” Mike cut him off. “I wanna hear.”

“Oh. Oh! Cool! Great. Uh.” Micky cleared his throat. “You can tell me if it sucks. I won’t be mad.”

Mike was about to say something, but Micky’s singing interrupted him. It almost felt like fiction. Everything around him suddenly became quiet and all he could hear was Micky. All he could  _ see _ was Micky. Mike didn’t know exactly where they were now, but it wasn’t LA anymore. It was just them.

_ “I can tell by your face _

_ That you’re looking to find a place _

_ To settle your mind and reveal who you are _

_ And you shouldn’t be shy _

_ Cause I’m not going to try _

_ To hurt you _

_ Or heal you _

_ Or steal your star.” _

It took Mike at least 20 seconds to register that Micky had stopped singing. He slowly felt himself returning back to the park bench.

“...So? Whadja think? That’s all I’ve got. Was it okay? Was it too slow? I kinda think it’s slow. And it’s weird, the timing’s weird, I think. I don’t even know how I’d write music to it. Oh, and take a wild guess who it’s about! If you don’t like it, I can just--”

“Micky.” Mike didn’t even wait to see if he was going to stop talking. “That was…” Mike had to stop. His eyes were welling up. Oh my god, he was about to cry. In front of  _ Micky _ . He couldn’t do that. He coughed, inhaled deeply and squeezed his eyes for a moment.  _ I can’t believe he wrote a song for me. ABOUT me. _ He didn’t even have the words. He couldn’t find them. He couldn’t say them.

“...Oh, god, you hated it, didn’t you--”

Instead of speaking, Mike sat up and put himself on autopilot. He reached out, putting his hand on Micky’s shoulder and almost pulling it away when Micky flinched. But Micky just stared back at him, in awe and shock and amazement and reverence. Mike didn’t  _ have _ to say anything, because Micky understood. He understood as soon as he looked into Mike’s eyes and felt what he felt. 

They didn’t need words. They didn’t need long, in-depth conversations. They didn’t need storybook moments or hilarious hijinks that only the two of them would ever understand. All they needed was each other and their music.

That would be enough.


	12. Like Mike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like the 2002 basketball comedy of the same name, but better

**Friday, September 11  
** **One week until the audition**

Mike kept his gaze locked on his fret board. His fingers were flying around like a game of whack-a-mole. When he stopped, Micky erupted into applause.

“That was your best solo yet!”

Mike shrugged. “Needs some work.”

“Nah. I think it’s perfect. You’ve got magic fingers, Mike.”

Mike grabbed his pen and scribbled that down.

“So. We’ve got _Somewhere_ \-- which I still want to re-title, by the way -- this song about that Mary chick -- I would really like to know where she’s going! -- _Sometime In The Morning_ , that one’s really sweet.”

“It’s kinda cheesy,” Mike said passively, tapping his pen against the notebook.

“Cheese is good. The crowd’ll eat it up, guaranteed.”

“As long as it’s not goat cheese,” Mike mumbled.

Micky laughed heartily. He couldn’t get enough of Mike’s sarcastic quips.

“And, see -- if you named this one _Sometime In the Morning,_ why can’t we name _Somewhere_ something longer? Or else we should just change it to _Sometime_.”

Mike sighed. “Micky, I told you, I don’t care what it’s--”

“Fine! Whatever. Have it your way for now.”

Mike groaned and fought back the urge to smack his forehead.

“Okay. So we have one… two… three songs. Then there’s this one you just played about jeans…”

“ _Gene’s_ ,” Mike grumbled, but Micky didn’t hear.

“...this is pretty good stuff!” he declared for the millionth time. “Honestly, I don’t know how many songs they’ll even let us play. I think having four is a safe bet.”

“‘S all we got, anyway,” Mike noted.

“Right. If we have to, we’ll play a Beatles song or something.”

“You could play like Ringo if you had to?” Mike asked with a smirk.

“Are you kidding?! Not in a million years. Can _you_ play like George?”

“...more like John,” Mike said after a moment of thinking.

“Great! And all I need to do is sing.”

“So we’ve got four original songs…”

“...and about a million backup options,” Micky smiled. He glanced over at the clock and scrambled up from his seat at the drums.

“Shit! I gotta go!” he stuck his head in the fridge and grabbed the first thing he saw. 

“You don’t hafta come here during your lunch break…” Mike said softly.

“Yes I do! It’s the only way we’ll be ready in time. We only have a week until the audition!”

Mike swallowed. A week? Was he sure about that? It just seemed like yesterday he had run into blue-eyes… 

“Here.” Mike yelped loudly and scrambled out of the way when an object came flying at him. “Jeez! Sorry,” Micky said, his cheeks red. Mike had flung his arm in front of his face. Micky leaned next to him to pick up what he had thrown and… he swore he saw Mike trembling. “They’re my keys,” he cautioned, dangling the keychain in front of him. “So you don’t have to stay cooped up while I’m gone.”

Mike took a peek. Micky really was holding his keys out for him.

“...Micky…”

“Don’t try and argue this one!” Micky didn’t miss the way Mike flinched when he reached for his hand. He grabbed his wrist and plopped the keys in his palm. “I was trying to think of things for you to do while I’m at work and I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before! don’t want you just sitting on the couch all day. Go… take a walk, go to the beach, I dunno. Just don’t stay inside!” 

Mike stared at the keys. Was Micky really trusting him with these? Not that he was opposed to it. Just… surprised, maybe. No, no. Micky had been insisting that Mike do something other than sit on the couch all week. Maybe he just felt weird holding onto something that wasn’t his. 

“See you tonight!” Micky called from the doorway. He reached into his pockets and frantically patted himself down before remembering where his keys were. 

Mike had every intention of continuing to practice his solo for _Papa Gene’s Blues_ , but he found himself sitting and staring at the keys for an unnatural amount of time. He probably _should_ go outside… but he almost didn’t want to. It had been two weeks of permanently staying at Micky’s now and he had gotten used to the comfort of the place. Even if he still felt like an intruder, he at least felt confident that he wouldn’t be thrown back out in the streets. This place was secure. He had stability here. Leaving the apartment alone felt like he was giving up all of that.

But he had the keys. He could come back whenever he wanted. It would be waiting for him.

So Mike got up, put his shoes on and went outside. He tested the keys twice to make sure they really worked, but he was eventually able to tear himself away from the building and go outside.

Alone.

He knew these streets, of course. He knew them like the back of his hand. But it all felt different, like his vision was clouded. He was a normal person now. Someone with a home and a washing machine and a fridge. Someone with a pillow and a blanket and running water. He was just like everyone else again. 

Mike let his mind wander as he walked down the street. Every so often, he’d glance up to see how many people were staring at him. Nobody was. He kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. Only once or twice did he bump into someone, and instead of yelling at him, they simply smiled and said sorry.

Mike didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t matter. It was a nice temperature out -- not too humid, not too windy. It was sunny, but not too bright. He decided that he liked California in September. 

He passed the old abandoned storefront he used to play in front of. He passed the bakery where someone gave him a pastry out of pity. He passed parts of the sidewalk he had become all too familiar with. A part of him felt like he still belonged out here. He had spent months on the street and only two weeks with Micky. But right now, he felt a sense of calm he hadn’t experienced in years. He had keys to an apartment in his pocket. He was taking a walk for leisure -- not for groceries, or for work. Right now, he had nothing to do and nowhere to go. He could finally just… enjoy the world around him.

He didn’t think he was going anywhere in particular, but he had inadvertently found his way back to the park. Mike cautiously looked around -- blue-eyes wasn’t here. He wasn’t sure if that made him happy or disappointed. Now that it was September, all the kids were back in school. The park was empty, save for a few mothers pushing strollers. Mike recognized them as the type of people who would report him to the police just for sitting there. They didn’t even cast him a glance now.

Mike really wished he had brought his guitar. It wasn’t too long ago that he was using the neck of it to shade him from the harsh heat; now, he let the light wash over him like a golden mist. He had felt inspiration before, of course, but this was something different. There was something in the air. Something intangible. 

When Mike closed his eyes, he swore he could hear the sound of a guitar. When he opened his eyes, he realized that was because someone was sitting on the grass playing one. An inexplicable feeling of anger washed over him. He knew who this guy was.

Mike began to stomp over, but his steps became slower when he listened to the music some more. He didn’t know how, but the sound coming from the guitar was a perfect match for the way he felt. It was like converting the air into sound. It was otherworldly.

Mike walked, slower this time. Instead of going to the bench, he approached the base of his tree and slid to the ground, stretching his legs and putting his arms behind his head. He stared at the leaves and watched the way the sun found every little opening to poke through like it was a game. The guitar sunk into the background as Mike sat, content.

“Hey, you’re Micky’s friend, right?”

Mike, who didn’t even notice someone entering his peripheral, kept looking up. The boy cleared his throat, and Mike’s eyes flickered for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Mike.”

“Michael! Right. I’m Pe--”

“--Peter. I know.”

Peter nodded as he sat down next to Mike, gently leaning his guitar against the tree to his right.

“It’s a shame, you know. The leaves don’t turn here like they do back home.”

Mike sighed. He didn’t want conversation, but that’s what he was getting. “Where’s home?”

“New England.”

“New England ain’t a state,” Mike muttered. 

“Oh. Uh, Connecticut.”

“Hm,” Mike grumbled. “Texas.”

“Oh, so you must be used to this heat, then. I don’t know how I survived the summer here.”

“Jeez, it ain’t the equator,” Mike mumbled harshly.

“Of course it’s not the equator. It’s California!” Peter grinned. Mike rolled his eyes. “I’ve been here since April. I oughta know.”

Mike said nothing.

“So Micky told me you play guitar,” Peter started, nodding his head to his instrument. “Are you gonna do the contest?”

Mike nodded. “Me and Micky are.”

Peter’s face lit up. “Oh, the two of you?! Far out, man! I remember Micky telling me he plays the drums.”

“Yeah. And he’s damn good at it,” Mike snapped.

“Oh, I bet he is. That’s groovy, man.” Peter glanced over at his guitar and, after a moment of hesitation, pulled it onto his lap. Mike stared at it in awe. _That’s a $100 guitar._

“You like it?” Peter asked. “I bought it when I moved here. That’s when I met Micky, actually. He sold it to me.”

“It’s--that’s--uh, wow,” Mike stammered. He almost felt unqualified to even look at a guitar like that.

“You wanna try it out?” Peter pushed the guitar to Mike.

“Oh, uh, no, I--I shouldn’t--”

“Come on! I wanna hear you play,” Peter all but shoved the guitar into Mike’s hands. “Get a taste of the competition,” he winked.

Mike couldn’t say no now -- he was _holding_ the damn thing. He had never held a single piece of property so expensive in his life. He felt like he was diminishing its value just by getting his fingerprints on it.

“Don’t be shy!” Peter smiled. 

“...you got a pick?” Mike asked quietly. Peter patted his pockets and looked nervous for a moment.

“No. Well, yes, I--I do, but it’s from a friend, and I don’t let anyone else use it. Sorry.”

Mike shrugged. “Just wonderin’.”

Peter watched Mike play in pure delight. Unlike Peter’s folk-inspired style, Mike had a southern twang thing going on that was both innovative and old-school. Peter had never really liked country music until he heard Mike.

“That was groovy,” Peter smiled when Mike finished. “I dig the style. It’s like you fused country and rock n’ roll together.”

Mike gingerly handed the guitar back to Peter. He hated that he was flattered by that compliment. “Thanks.”

“You wanna hear what me and Davy have been working on? Since I’m the only one with an instrument, I have to incorporate lots of different parts into one.”

Mike shifted around a bit. He wasn’t quite sure why he was so eager to share his secrets, but he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to hear Peter play more. So Mike nodded.

“Groovy! Okay. It’s _A Summer Song_.”

Mike raised an eyebrow, intrigued and a little skeptical. He wasn’t skeptical when Peter finished, though. Mike could hardly believe there was only one person playing. If it wasn’t in front of his own eyes, he would have thought it was dubbed over several times. The layers were insane. Peter’s hand moved so fast it looked robotic. He was so much better than Mike could dream of being.

“Michael? Are you okay?” Peter asked, observing Mike’s face. He looked like he was in pain.

“Mike,” he corrected. “I… wow. That was great.”

Peter’s dimples were out in full force. “Gee, thanks! Wow, I’m real excited to hear you and Micky play. It’s gonna be a gas!”

Mike nodded. He didn’t know what else he could say. 

“Hey, we should try and get together before the auditions! Maybe we could critique each other and try to--”

“--Ain’t the whole point of this to win?” Mike huffed in annoyance. “I don’t need your help.”

“Oh. I just meant we could help each other get better.”

“I--we _don’t_ need your help,” Mike repeated impatiently. “Micky and I are fine. Better than fine, even. We’re _great_.” Mike stood up and brushed off his pants. “See you Friday.”

Mike strode back to the apartment, leaving Peter sitting alone under the tree, bewildered.

* * *

“What did you say to him?”

“I just said we could critique each other.”

“Well, that’s bloody stupid,” Davy chided, shutting off the burner and pouring hot water into his teacup. “We shouldn’t be helpin’ out the competition.”

“That’s what Mike said!” Peter cried, exasperated.

“Yeah, he’s bloody stupid too.” Davy pulled a tea bag from the cabinet and plopped it in the cup. “He didn’t have to be an arse about it. Weird kid, he is.”

“Is this _really_ a serious competition?” Peter asked. “I mean, are we expecting to win?”

Davy dropped his spoon dramatically. “Yes! Of course! Do you _not_ think we’ll win?”

“I mean, I want to! I just don’t want to get our hopes up,” Peter said with a hint of guilt. “We still have our spot at the Gaslight.”

“That’s not enough, mate! You know that. And I’m talking money. We can’t afford this place without more gigs.”

Peter sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” Davy said, putting his cup down and patting Peter on the back. “It’s stressful, this is. I’m nervous too.”

“We only have one original song.”

“There’s no rule that says we need to write our own stuff.”

“Yeah, but if we want this to work, we can’t make a living off being a cover band.”

“We’ll think of more! You’re incredibly talented on whatever instrument you touch, mate! I’ve never written songs before. I’ll have to try harder.”

“David, you’re doing just fine. You’ve never done music like this before. It’s not an easy transition.”

“You’re tellin me,” Davy sighed. “Half the time I wonder if we’re doin’ it right.”

“That’s the beauty of music. There’s no right or wrong way to do anything.”

“It’s not like a play with scripts and lines and choreographed dance numbers.”

“Exactly. It’s whatever we want it to be. And I like what we are.” Peter offered a warm smile. “You’re a good songwriter, Davy. You wrote _I Wanna Be Free_ on your first try! That’s amazing.”

Davy blushed. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s great! I promise.”

“Thanks, Pete.” Davy sipped his tea. “‘M sorry for gettin’ mad. I just want to win, you know? I want to win _badly_. It would be huge for us.”

“Huge for us, or huge for you?”

Davy snickered. “I make it so obvious, don’t I?”

“Subtlety is not your strong suit, Davy.”

“You’re one to talk,” Davy teased, grabbing a pillow and smacking Peter with it. “You came back here practically in _tears_ ‘cause you thought Mike didn’t like you.”

“I don’t think he does!” Peter whined. “He was acting weird. I don’t know what I could have possibly done to make him upset.”

“I think he’s just like that, you know? He doesn’t seem like a nice guy.”

“Micky said he’s just shy.”

“ _Micky_ looks at the world through rose-colored glasses,” Davy laughed. “They’re strange blokes, both of ‘em.”

“So are we!” Peter retorted, taking the pillow and smacking Davy back.

“Yeah, yeah,” Davy dismissed, finishing his tea. “Say, I was thinking… I know we only have a week left, but I think I need to get myself an instrument. Like a tambourine.” Davy glanced at Peter, who was just staring. “What? Are you judging me, mate?”

“No! I think it’s a great idea.”

“Oh. You were just staring at me.”

“I was just thinking about how you looked playing that tambourine the night of our first gig.”

Davy wiggled his eyebrows. “And how _did_ I look?”

“ _Dashing_ ,” Peter grinned in a terrible British accent.

“Mate, I told you to stop doing that. Your accent is terrible.”

“I’m sowray,” Peter frowned.

“That’s it!” Davy cried. He dove after Peter, grabbing a pillow as the two playfully wrestled. They were a mess of laughter once they ran out of energy.

“You just attacked me,” Peter breathed, lying on the floor.

“You provoked me,” Davy poked back.

“You attacked me!” Peter repeated between giggles.

“You were askin’ for it!”

Peter picked up the pillow again and threw it at Davy with full force. “Come on, we need to practice.”

“My god!” Davy said, peeling the pillow off his face. “You’re stronger than you look.”

“PRACTICE!” Peter yelled, picking up his guitar and strumming it wildly.

Davy groaned. “Okay, _dad_.”

He almost missed the way Peter flinched.

**Saturday, September 12  
** **Six days until the audition**

Davy was surprised when he walked into Al’s. Well, he shouldn’t have been all that surprised, since the store was named after him. But Al was the only one there.

“Can I help you?” Al asked, noticing Davy’s eyes rapidly scanning the room.

“Yeah. Is Micky here?”

“Oh, you’re one of Micky’s buddies. He’s taking his lunch break right now--” Al stopped when he looked at his watch. “Hmm. That was over an hour ago.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way back,” Davy said absently.

“You gonna buy something? ‘Cause if not, I’ll need you to--”

“Davy!” a voice called from the door. His hair was a mess.

“Hey, Micky,” Davy smiled.

“Sorry Al, I-I lost track of time and when I realized what time it was I had to run back and I kept hitting stoplights and--”

“--It’s fine, Mick,” Al laughed. “You’ve got a customer.”

“Right!” Micky took a breath. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Do you need something?”

“Yes,” Davy chuckled. “I need a tambourine.”

“A tambourine? What for?”

“What do you mean what for-- for _me!_ ”

“Oh. Duh!” Micky smacked his forehead. “Come on.” He led them to a small bin in the corner of the store. “We don’t have a lot, but this is what we’ve got.”

“Nice rhyme there,” Davy said, picking up the tambourine at the top. He gave it a good shake. “Ooh! That sounds groovy.” He shook it again and tapped it against his leg. 

“You’re a natural!” Micky exclaimed.

“Yeah, you got that right.” Davy turned it around in his hands for good measure. “I’ll take it.”

“I should get you and Pete in here more often. You guys are my easiest sells! I don’t even need to say anything.”

“You should try that more often!” Al yelled from across the room.

“Ha ha,” Micky called back. His expression shifted into anxiety. “D-did Peter come with you?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t really wanna come in, so he’s waitin’ outside for me.” Davy peeked through the window. There was no sign of Peter. 

“Ugh,” Davy rolled his eyes as they made their way to the register. “I lost him.”

“Buy a leash next time,” Micky joked.

“You know, you think you’re joking, but I’m serious,” Davy said, fishing around his pockets for money. “He wanders off all the time.”

“Pete’s a drifter,” Micky remarked. He didn’t know why that comment made Davy giggle.

“So I can expect to see you dancin’ around stage with this?” Micky asked slyly, taking the money and handing Davy his tambourine.

“That’s none of your business!” Davy shot back, half-joking, as he snatched the tambourine. 

While he waited for Davy to return, Peter sat on a bench a few blocks away. He was peeking through different store windows and somehow wound up here. He had always enjoyed window-shopping. He liked to imagine the type of people who would buy up all kinds of clothes and knickknacks, because it certainly wasn’t him. He was content with living minimalistically. He knew other people liked to window shop, too, but that was more because they pictured themselves with fancy items. Mike was that kind of person. He would always imagine himself wearing nice suits and patterned shirts with an expensive guitar and lots of recording equipment. He was window shopping too and didn’t notice Peter on the other side of the street. He would stare at the display cases when he lived on the streets, but store owners were understandably wary of disheveled, wiry hobos hovering outside their store. Now that Mike was a regular person, he could daydream as long as he wanted. Despite his scuffle with Peter yesterday, Mike enjoyed his walk and the feeling of freedom it gave him, so he decided to take another one today. 

It took Peter a little while to recognize Mike. The hat was the dead giveaway. He quickly crossed the road and tapped Mike on the shoulder. He tried not to think much of it when Mike yelped in surprise.

“Jesus! Y’almost gave me a heart attack,” Mike huffed.

“Sorry,” Peter blushed. “I was sitting across the street and wanted to say hi!”

“Hi. Great. Now leave me alone,” Mike leered.

Peter frowned. “Hey, c’mon, man, that’s not cool.” He stared at Mike a few moments. “Did I do something?”

“Yeah, you did, actually.”

Peter waited a moment, but Mike didn’t elaborate. “Uh?”

“Nevermind that you wanted to steal our songs for the contest--”

“--I don’t want to do that--”

“--But you _abandoned Micky_.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb! Unless you ain’t playin’,” Mike glared. “You left him at that store to work a million hours all by himself. No explanation, nothin’.”

Peter’s cheeks were hot. “I know, I--”

“--he barely gets any sleep and he’s always on edge. He thinks you left ‘cause he annoyed you."

“Well, that’s not why--”

“--You got this “peace and love” vibe, but I don’t buy it. You make Micky doubt himself ‘cause you show off, playin’ a thousand different instruments and puttin’ him down.”

Peter felt his eyes welling up. “That’s not true! I never--”

“--DON’T!” Mike yelled. “I don’t wanna hear it. Just, stay away from us. I don’t want nothin’ to do with you.”

“But--”

“--but _what_? We ain’t friends. We barely know each other. You’re just some kid who used to work with my friend, and now you don’t. That’s it.”

Peter’s mouth hung open as he watched Mike stomp away. Maybe Davy was right. Maybe Mike just wasn’t a nice guy.

* * *

Micky had to do a double-take. One moment, he was watching Davy leave the store. The next moment, Mike was storming in.

“Mike! Is everything okay? You look tense. Is the apartment on fire? Did we finally run out of goat cheese?!”

Mike sighed. He didn’t want Micky to know. “Everythin’s alright. I just… wanted to say hi, I guess.”

“Oh. Well. Hi!” Micky smiled. “It’s been a while since you were here with me, huh?”

Mike snickered. “Yeah.”

“Pretty much nothing’s changed except for the amount of people in the store.” Micky hopped over the counter to join Mike. “Now that school’s back and all. Plus, more people have been going to smaller shops to get their instruments. The other day I ran down the wrong street trying to get back here after lunch and I passed this guitar shop with, like, 30 people in it! They were all playing and passing around guitars and--”

Mike had lost all interest in what Micky was saying. His eyes found the Gretsch again. 

“Oh! That must be the guitar you really like.” 

“...It’s beautiful,” Mike breathed.

“Jeez, Al was right. You _do_ look like you’re in love.”

Mike was too infatuated to care what Micky was saying.

“Gee, I wish we could afford that,” Micky sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “Even with my employee discount, it’s still a gazillion dollars.”

Micky studied Mike’s face as he stayed silent. His lips were slightly parted and his eyes were very subtly darting back and forth. Maybe he was sizing the thing up. Maybe he was trying to find a flaw in it. Or maybe he was just imagining himself playing it. Mike was staring at that guitar like it had been stolen from him in another life; like his curse was only to look at it, never touch it. There was yearning in his eyes.

Both boys were jolted from their trance when the bell jingled and a group of college-aged kids walked in.

“I should probably handle them,” Micky said, narrowing his eyes in disapproval as they began to haphazardly pull out random records. “You gonna be alright?”

Mike blinked a few times before turning his head. “Yeah. I think I need a nap.”

Micky giggled. “Alright. Rest up, ‘cause we got a big rehearsal tonight!”

Mike gave the guitar one last look before heading out.

**Sunday, September 13  
** **Five days until the audition**

“You’re really talented, Mike. I wish I had half the talent that you do.”

“You stop that. You _do_ have talent,” Mike insisted. He had tried to avoid Micky’s backhandedly-degrading comments all night, but it was no use. 

“Not as much as you!” Micky said with a big smile. Mike wondered if he would smile half as much if he knew Mike could tell when he was faking it. 

“Are you feeling better?” Micky asked, and suddenly it all made sense to Mike. Micky was flooding him with praise because he was nervous that Mike was still upset. Well, he was. But he didn’t want Micky to worry.

“‘M fine,” Mike grumbled. “Y’don’t need to worry ‘bout me.”

“I always worry about you,” Micky mused. “You’ve seemed a little off since the other day.”

“I’m fine,” Mike repeated, hoping his tone of voice would let Micky know to drop the subject. Micky frowned, but didn’t press further.

“Are you excited? The audition is _this week!_ I was telling some guys about it at the mechanic today. They think it’s far out, and they might want to come and support us! You know, clap extra loud,” Micky winked. 

“That’d be a groove,” Mike said. “You gonna wear those pajama pants to the show?”

Micky laughed. He was wearing long, flowing striped pajama pants with a matching shirt. Mike was wearing a pair of boxers and one of Micky’s white shirts.

“Only if you go like _that_ ,” Micky grinned. “We need to get you some pajamas.”

Mike shook his head. “This is fine.”

“Nonsense! I sleep in silky luxury every night. You deserve the same.”

Mike sighed. “Micky, drop that, will ya? I’m fine.” He cleared his throat, realizing how not fine he had sounded. “I’ve got a couch to sleep on an’ a roof over my head. I’m content.”

“But… don’t the little creature comforts make you happy? Like, having comfy PJs. Or cool things on the wall.”

“Never had ‘em. Don’t need ‘em,” Mike replied rather quickly. 

Micky put his drumsticks down, resigned to the fact that rehearsal for the night was done. “Michael Nesmith… are you lying to me?”

Mike’s cheeks turned pink as he looked to the ground. “S’what,” he mumbled.

“So! We’re friends, Mike. You can tell me things. I _want_ you to tell me things.”

“What if I got nothin’ to say?” 

Micky smirked. “Now _that_ I don’t believe. I think you’ve got plenty on your mind. You just don’t wanna say it.”

Mike pinched the brim of his nose, but he couldn’t get angry. Micky was stubborn in his own way, just like Mike was. 

“My real name isn’t Mike,” he blurted.

“See, I -- wait, what?”

Mike sighed. “My real name. It ain’t Mike. Just like yours ain’t Micky.”

A light went off in Micky’s head. “Woah woah _woah_. Are you telling me… that your middle name is--”

“--is also Michael. Yes.”

“I KNEW IT!”

Mike laughed in surprise. “How could you have known?”

“I’m kidding,” Micky giggled. “What’s your real name! I wanna know!”

“...Robert.” 

Micky pulled a face like he just ate a lemon. “You don’t look like a Robert at _all_.”

“Probably why I don’t go by that name anymore.”

“Anymore? Did they call you Robert at home? Or Rob? Robby? Bob?”

“If anyone called me Bob, I punched them,” Mike quipped, too serious to be joking but too lighthearted to be serious.

“Well, I never _punched people_ , but my dad used to call me George, since I’m technically a junior. Took my mom a while to get used to Micky. I changed it because everyone in the industry knew my dad and I wanted to be my own person. That’s why Chuck still calls me George, by the way. He was a friend of my dad’s.” Mike watched the emotions travel over Micky’s face like a dark shadow, and he understood.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Mike muttered softly. “It’s alright.”

“But I _want to_ ,” Micky said, his voice quavering. “I can’t talk about it with my sisters because they’re too young. I can’t talk about it with my mom because she gets too sad. I can’t talk about it with any of my school friends because they don’t understand.”

“What makes you think _I’ll_ understand?”

Micky pondered that. It was a fair question.

“Well… maybe you won’t. But you listen to me when I talk. Can’t say that about many other people. They listen to me ‘cause they _have_ to, not ‘cause they _want_ to. _You_ want to.” A pause. “Right?”

Mike didn’t hesitate to say yes. He was starting to realize that anytime Micky got in a mood like this, Mike felt this churning in his stomach; like he was getting dragged down with Micky and felt like it was his job to pull them back up. He still couldn’t understand how Micky was able to act so confident yet be so vulnerable. He was a better actor than he gave himself credit for.

“I know you don’t like to talk, and that’s alright. It’s kinda nice, actually. It keeps me in check sometimes. I’ll be at work and sometimes things will get really overwhelming and I’ll be like, ‘Hmm. What would Mike do?’ And it helps me calm down.”

Mike scoffed out of pure surprise. Who in their right mind would want to think like _him?_

“I’m serious, man! When people feed into me, it just keeps me going. You mellow me out. You’re so… relaxed. And collected.”

“‘Cause I gotta be.”

Micky cocked his head.

“I got a real bad temper,” Mike said, wringing his hands. “When it gets outta hand, I blow up. It ain’t pretty.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is.”

“The whole reason I’m here is ‘cause I got into a fight with my dad. Said I’d never be a musician, that music was dumb. I told him he was wrong. We argued. Next day, when he went to work n’ all the family was out of the house, I left.” 

“...you just left? Without telling anyone?”

“I told my mom I was leaving. I was tryin’ to sneak out and she caught me. I had already made up my mind.”

“Do you miss them?”

Mike thought about it for a moment. “I miss my siblings. Hannah, she’s the youngest. I prob’ly broke her poor heart.”

“What about your parents?”

“I never had the best relationship with them,” Mike said so quietly that Micky could barely hear. “I’m sure they’ve moved on.”

“I doubt that. They’re your parents. They care.”

“They got seven others to worry about,” Mike shrugged. “Marcus, he’s a year younger than me. He wants to go to college. He’s the smart one, I dunno where he got it. They’re prob’ly fussin’ about findin’ money for him.” Mike paused for a moment, then laughed to himself. “I dunno how you do this to me.”

“Do what?” Micky questioned.

“Make me talk like this.”

“Well, you rub off on me. Maybe I do the same to you.”

Mike huffed a laugh. “Maybe that’s it.”

“Or maybe you’re just more like me than you think,” Micky smiled. “You got a wild side, Mike Nesmith. I can feel it.”

“And you got a quiet side, right? I ain’t seen it yet, but I bet you got one,” Mike cajoled.

“Sounds more like a request than an observation,” Micky said slyly.

Mike shrugged and cracked a small smile. 

“You know, my mom called me the other day at work. She wanted to know when the audition was. And at the end, right before I was about to hang up, she started talking about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. She said you were, and this is a quote from her, ‘A nice, quiet young man. You should be more like him.’ And that made me laugh. Be like Mike. I don’t think I could stay that quiet if someone paid me.”

“Well, you should try it and find out.”

“ _Mike_ !” Micky cried, jumping up. “You’re so snippy, man. It’s hilarious. Maybe I _should_ be more like you. I could become a comedian. Like Lenny Bruce.”

“You don’t wanna be like Lenny Bruce,” Mike muttered.

“Now _you_ sound like my mother,” Micky giggled. He stared at the drums as he let out a yawn. “Guess we’re done rehearsing for the night, huh?”

Mike nodded, stretching his arms high into the air.

“I’m just gonna shower in the morning,” Micky yawned again, tussling his hair. “I’m beat.”

Mike nodded in acknowledgment. He leaned his guitar up against the wall and grabbed the blanket hanging at the end of the couch. He stared down at the mess of pillows at the ground, sniffing a laugh to himself.

“Good rehearsal tonight. It’s really comin’ together,” Micky said from the doorway before breaking into a wide grin. “Sweet dreams, _Bob!”_

He was barely able to get the door closed before the pillows came flying.


	13. You didn't have to be so nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: listens to lovin' spoonful once  
> me: writes this chapter

**Tuesday, September 15  
** **Three days until the audition**

“Mike, I dunno if this is such a good idea.”

“Hush,” Mike said lowly, though there was no need for that. This was a public club and they had every right to be there.

“Are we hiding from them? It seems like we’re hiding.”

The place? The Gaslight. The occasion? Spying on Peter and Davy.

“We ain’t hidin’.”

“Well, are we going to let them know we’re here?”

“Absolutely not,” Mike muttered sternly. He slid into a table tucked into a dimly-lit corner.

“I dunno… this isn’t my scene. I like to be up front and dance. Maybe pick up a few chicks. Why does this need to be a secret?”

The answer? Mike didn’t want to feel like a hypocrite. He had gotten upset at the idea of Peter trying to steal their material, but it got Mike thinking. Why couldn’t they do the same? Sizing up the competition wasn’t an egregious tactic. It was strategy. If Mike knew how the crowd here responded to them, then they could tweak their set accordingly. There was enough time for that.

“So we’re hiding,” Micky stated, trying to get something from Mike, who shrugged in response.

“Call it whatcha want.”

Micky couldn’t wrap his head around why this had to be a secret, but he was willing to go with it. Maybe Mike was nervous about looking like they were trying to steal their stuff. Davy  _ was  _ reluctant to share any details with Micky in the store the other day.

“Good evening ladies and germs!” Micky laughed and Mike rolled his eyes at the bubbly emcee who was clutching the mic like his life depended on it. “If you’re comin’ back: hey, thanks. We appreciate ya. If you’re comin’ for the first time, well, you get nothin’ from me ‘till you’re a regular. Please welcome to the stage, our favorite intercontinental duo and a Gaslight staple,  _ Peter and Davy! _ ”

Micky clapped enthusiastically, which elicited a disapproving stare from Mike. 

“ _ Peter and Davy. _ Not the most creative name,” Mike said snidely.

“Better than us. We don’t even  _ have _ a name.”

“It’s clearly a ripoff of Peter and Gordon,” Mike complained.

“...Mike, it’s their  _ names _ . Are you okay, man? You’re in a sour mood.”

Mike waved him off. “Shh. They’re startin’.”

“‘Ello,” Davy grinned, waving to a small group of girls at the front of the stage. “I’m Davy, that’s Peter, and we hope you can dig it.”

As they began to play, Micky excitedly pointed to the stage. “Oh! That’s the tambourine I sold him!”

Mike kept his attention firmly on the music. He didn’t even recognize the song they were playing. There’s no way they would use this one at the audition… right? The crowd seemed to be into it, but not all that much. They were all talking and laughing and drinking.

“They’re not even payin’ attention…”

“...I’m convinced you’ve never actually been to a club before.” 

“Not like they’re linin’ the streets in Texas.”

Micky soon became bored of trying to milk information out of Mike, and he quickly became interested in what Peter and Davy were actually  _ doing _ . Just like Mike, he watched in awe as Peter switched from a banjo to a guitar to a piano like they were all the same instrument. He played them all flawlessly. 

“He’s amazing,” Micky said soberly.

“We can’t compete with that,” Mike replied.

Micky turned to him. “Is that what this is all about? Trying to see if we stand a chance?”

Mike shrugged, but he was clearly caught. 

“Hey man, c’mon, give yourself some credit. Jack of all trades, master of none, right? You play that guitar like it’s a part of you, and that’s why you’re so good. Nobody else is playing it like you. Plus, Davy looks kinda stupid just banging a tambourine on his leg. At least we have real drums.”

Mike snorted. 

“ _ And _ we have original songs! You’re a real songwriter!”

Mike nodded his head slowly. That was actually a good point. It didn’t seem like they were playing any original material, even if Mike didn’t recognize all of it.

“Look. I’m nervous too. But we can’t even compare ourselves to them ‘cause we’re totally different! We just have to focus on  _ us,  _ man . Plus, it’s just an audition. This isn’t for all the marbles.”

“...You’re right,” Mike sighed. “‘M sorry I dragged us out here.”

Micky patted Mike on the back, and Mike allowed it. “Don’t sweat it. Let’s just split, yeah? We’ll get some sleep. No rehearsing tonight. I think you need a break.”

Mike stared at Micky for a moment, but by the time he had made up his mind, it was a moment too long. 

“Well, well! Look at this!”

Both heads turned to see Peter and Davy standing at their table. Davy had his arms crossed, and Peter looked rather nervous.

“What brings you blokes to our club?” Davy asked, bypassing all pleasantries.

“Oh! Well, we were just out for a walk, weren’t we Mike?” Micky nudged his arm. “And we saw this place and thought, ‘Wow, that’s a real groovy place.’ So we decided to check it out and there you were! Playing on stage! Hah, what a coincidence, huh?”

Davy furrowed his brow. “Riiiiight. Well, hope you fellas enjoyed the show. You’ll be seein’ more of it on Friday! And thanks for the tambourine, mate. Really helped make the set better, don’t you think?”

Micky didn’t even get a chance to retaliate before Davy spun around on his heels and walked away. Peter stared at Mike, desperately trying to read his face. Mike was trying to do the same. Neither could figure out what the other was thinking. 

“Peter! Come on!” Davy yelled from across the room. Peter stared for another second before turning around to join his friend.

“...That was really uncomfortable,” Micky spluttered after a few beats of silence. Mike could only nod. 

The two walked in dead silence on their way back home. Mike felt ridiculous. Davy was  _ not _ buying any of Micky’s story and he was  _ not _ thrilled to see them there. Peter must have told him about their encounter from the other day. It was actually intimidating to see Davy like that. For such a little guy, he had a big presence.

“Davy was riled up, man,” Micky said, finally breaking the tension. “I thought he was gonna take a swing at me.”

Mike didn’t say anything. Micky stopped talking. They entered the apartment in silence, Mike instantly going to the couch and Micky going to the bathroom. He stayed there for 15 minutes before emerging.

“I’m going to bed,” he said flatly. Mike almost stopped him -- he didn’t want to be alone right now. But Micky felt just as bad as Mike did; after all, he was the one who came up with the ridiculous cover story that set Davy off. So Mike left him alone.

“Goodnight,” Micky said somberly. He didn’t even look behind him as he shut the door.

**Wednesday, September 16  
** **Two days before the audition**

“Micky, c’mon, you need to focus.”

Micky slammed down his drumsticks, making Mike flinch. “How can I focus? I keep thinking about stupid Davy and stupid Peter and how they hate us now!”

Mike rolled his eyes. “They don’t hate us. And who cares if they do?”

“I do! Not all of us can bury our emotions like you, Mike.”

Mike’s cheeks flushed red. 

“If it’s so easy, why don’t  _ you _ do it, huh? Why don’t  _ you _ play the drums?”

Mike just stared.

“Another musical know-it-all, huh? Telling dumb ‘ol Micky how it’s done. You know, you’re just like Peter! Always looking for ways to make me feel silly.”

At that, Mike started to get angry. He knew Micky was just frustrated, though. Mike getting mad would only make it worse. 

“Micky, I--”

“You’re so -- you’re so  _ frustrating _ , man! Half the time you don’t even talk, and when you do, you’re just telling me to stop distracting myself or you’re scolding me or refusing my help or _something_. That’s not cool man! I let you stay in my place, offer up my  _ life _ for you to be comfortable. But it seems like you take every conceivable measure to not believe me when I tell you things. You don’t even eat my food, man! That’s crazy! You’re crazy! You drive me crazy!” Micky finally made eye contact with Mike, who was wearing that same scared expression he had back in the club. Micky could almost feel his soul leaving his body.

Eyes wide in realization, he slowly backed away. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” He turned around and ran into his room, slamming the door behind him. 

Mike could barely process what just happened. Micky wasn’t mad -- he didn’t  _ sound _ mad. Mike knew what mad sounded like, because he grew up with seven other siblings and two moody parents. He also knew what anxiety sounded like.

He didn’t really want to knock, but after 30 minutes passed, he felt like he didn’t have a choice. He softly rapped on the door.

“It’s open,” a raspy voice called from the other side. Mike slowly walked in, as if the floor was covered in broken glass. He hadn’t actually been in Micky’s bedroom yet, but it was exactly how he thought it would be -- messy.

Micky was lying face-down on his bed. Mike didn’t understand how he was able to breathe with his face smushed up against the pillow, but he seemed to be managing. He took a seat on the foot of the bed, as far down as he could possibly go without falling right off. Micky mumbled something, but the sound was muffled.

“What?” Mike asked.

Micky sniffed and rolled over. “I said, I’m sorry.”

“You say that a lot.”

“So you’ve said.” Micky coughed a few times. “I didn’t mean it, you know. Not a word of it.”

“I know.” Mike kept his eyes trained down.

“I had no right to blow up on you like that.”

“I know.”

“I’m just anxious, man. I wanted to keep the peace, you know? Then you start acting all weird for no reason, and then you want to spy on Peter and Davy, and Davy says Peter doesn’t want to come in the store because he’s afraid--”

“--woah, what?” Mike stopped him. Peter was afraid to go back to the store?

“Well, he didn’t exactly say that. It was a few days ago when he came to buy the tambourine. You just missed him, actually. But he said Pete didn’t want to come in, so I’m just assuming he’s afraid to.”

Mike had no idea.

“Man, listen. I know sharing things is hard. It’s easy for me so I forget how hard it can be for other people. But you’ve been off for a few days now. Can you please just tell me why?”

Mike sighed. “I bumped into Peter. Twice.”

“...Okay?”

“And, well, I got mad at him, see. First time he had me play somethin’ on his guitar. Thought he was tryin’ to steal our stuff. And then the next day I was out on another walk and he was there. I… I told him he abandoned you and he needed to stay away from us.”

“Mike!” Micky scolded. “No wonder Davy was so peeved to see us! Why on earth would you do that?”

“‘Cause I saw how upset he made ya! I didn’t want…” he took a breath as he furiously twiddled his thumbs. Mike’s voice was uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I don’t like seein’ you upset.”

“Aww, Mike. That’s… weirdly endearing.”

Mike snorted. “‘S dumb.”

“It’s not dumb! You care about me. That’s sweet.”

“Don’t push it now,” Mike mumbled, trying to hide his smile. 

“Pete’s a nice kid. I don’t think he’s really aware of the things he does. It’s weird. I get so jealous of him but I can’t stay mad. He’s real genuine, you know?”

Mike shrugged. “Sure he is.”

“I know you don’t believe me, and that’s fine. Contrary to what I said before,” Micky managed a laugh. “You warmed up to me, so you can warm up to him.”

Mike opened his mouth to retaliate, but stopped himself. Micky may have made another good point.

“Do you actually think Peter was trying to rip us off? ‘Cause that doesn’t sound like something he’d do.”

“Maybe Davy sent him to do it.”

“Mike,” Micky said as he tried to contain his laughter, “man, you’re being so paranoid right now.”

“I dunno. Davy seems cunning.”

“Oh my god,” Micky pressed his hand to his mouth, presumably to stifle his wild laughter. “Can you imagine -- oh my god, what if Davy was, like, a Russian spy?”

Mike, taken aback by the pure absurd turn their conversation had taken, burst out laughing. “Man, what are you talkin’ about? He’s British!”

“That’s what he  _ wants _ you to think!” Micky giggled, sitting up. “He may be British, but he’s a Russian operative! Sent over here to sabotage us! Plus, Peter’s kind of a beatnik, so I bet he’s sympathetic to it.” Micky had to pause and catch his breath. “Zose two mewcisians! Zey are too talented! We must destroy zem before zey become too powerful!”

Mike’s stomach started to hurt from laughing so hard. After Micky broke out his Russian accent, Mike was wiping the tears from his eyes. The last time he cried laughing was… well, never. After what felt like hours of frantically gasping for breath, Micky finally calmed down.

“Man… that wasn’t even that funny,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“You have a really good Russian accent,” Mike replied, remnants of laughter still hanging in his voice.

“Man, I knew it. You _ do _ like to have fun.”

Mike rolled his eyes, but snickered anyway. “You’re crazy.”

“Oh, how the tables turn,” Micky sighed. “So… are we… good?”

Mike nodded. “‘Course we are.”

Micky grinned. “Good. And… you know you can come to me with anything, right? No matter how silly. I’m not great with advice, but I’m a good listener.”

Mike played with the bedsheet. He still didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of burdening Micky with all his problems when Micky clearly had so many of his own. But he supposed he could talk about  _ some _ little incidents here and there if Micky  _ really _ wanted to hear about it. Mike was usually content with being in his own world; he didn’t need to know the happenings of everyone around him. He was still getting used to Micky acting the complete opposite way.

Micky stared at Mike for a moment, waiting for him to respond before remembering that sometimes, Mike just doesn’t do that. He laughed softly. It was another long, introspective silence.

**Thursday, September 17** **  
** **One day before the audition** ****

“Davy, I dunno if this is such a good idea,” Peter whimpered as he nervously eyed the mostly-empty club they were in.

“Oh, Peter. Such an innocent young mind,” Davy sang.

“I’m older than you,” Peter mumbled.

“Age is but a number!”

“Is that why you’re trying to hit on the bartender?”

Davy rolled his eyes and spun back around on his stool. “She’s gonna help us win, Peter.”

“David, I don’t want to win if we’re going to be dirty about it.”

“It’s not dirty! It’s strategy.” Davy’s eyes caught her -- the bartender from opening night at the club. He wasn’t there to  _ cheat _ , really. He just wanted to use his charm to get on the bartender’s good side.  _ Maybe _ that would give them an advantage in the contest. Who knows?

“Oh, look who’s back,” a soft yet assertive voice said from behind the counter. “Here for a drink at 4 in the afternoon?”

“No, no,” Davy said with a manufactured laugh. “I was actually here to see you.”

“He’s not even old enough to drink,” Peter carped. Davy shot him a death look.

“Gee, aren’t you cute,” she smiled, seemingly oblivious to the bickering. Davy couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I last saw you.”

“Well, you should seek medical help, then,” she quipped, bending down to pick up a few beer glasses and rub them down.

“Only because I hurt my head when I fell for you.”

Peter’s hand smacked against his forehead so loud that the sound echoed across the room.

“My god, that was brutal,” the bartender chuckled, both annoyed and amused.

“I don’t believe I got your name last time we spoke,” Davy said suavely, ignoring both her and Peter’s reaction. He loosely extended his hand. “David Jones.”

“ _ David Jones _ ,” she repeated in, to Davy’s surprise, a decent British accent. She stared at his hand. “I’m Emily.”

“Emily. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” Davy smiled, wiggling his hand a bit so she’d notice it was there. Eventually, she took it, resigned to the fact that Davy was indeed going to kiss her hand. She narrowed her eyes at Davy for a moment, trying to figure out why exactly she recognized him.

“Oh! You’re one of the people auditioning tomorrow, aren’t you?” she finally realized.

Davy’s eyes twinkled. “That’s right.”

“It’s just you? Or the two of you?” she waved her hand in Peter’s direction.

“Yeah…” Davy trailed off. Her tone was somewhat accusatory.

“Hm. Good luck competing with the big bands.”

“Oh, we don’t need luck. Peter here can play every instrument known to man. And I’ve got some groovy dance moves. I can show you some now, if you’d like,” Davy said, flashing a winning smile.

Emily laughed. “Uh, no thanks. And unless he can play every instrument known to man at the same time, I don’t know what good that’ll do you.”

Davy frowned. He was not used to this happening during his flirting attempts. 

“Listen, David, I think you’re cute. I mean, it’s an objective fact.” She turned to Peter. “Right?”

Peter nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah. He’s gorgeous.”

“But I’m just not interested in dating right now. Even if the whole British thing is too much to resist. You dig?”

“Oh! That’s alright, love. That’s not why I came here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Davy nodded. “That’s right. See, we’re lookin’ for some advice. We’re clearly new to the scene and this contest is a huge opportunity for us. Any tips you can give us?”

Emily blinked. “You really came all this way for musical advice?  _ Not _ to take me out?”

Davy shrugged. “Well, if you’re in my arms when I leave later, I won’t be complaining.”

Emily laughed and rolled her eyes. “You’re really somethin’ else.” She leaned across the counter. “Okay, I’ll bite. This place may be new, but the crowds are the same. They like a performance. They like bands with flare. Anyone can sing and play a guitar, but it’s all about charisma.” She eyed Davy. “I think you’re fine in that department.”

“So you’re saying I’m charming?” he asked coyly.

“Hah, you already know you are. You don’t need me to tell you.”

“You know, you’re one groovy girl, Emily. Even if we lose, I’ll still come back here just to see you.”

“I hope you do. It’s good for business.”

Davy smiled as he hopped off the stool. “Clap extra loud for us tomorrow, alright?”

Emily threw her hands up. “If I’m not too busy cleaning beer glasses!”

“Well, that could have gone better,” Peter said as they stepped outside.

“You must be joking! That was perfect!”

Peter cocked his head. “She didn’t even want to go out with you.”

“Ah, Peter, Peter, Peter,” Davy tutted. He attempted to sling his arm around Peter’s shoulders but had to settle for the lower back. “Take notes, my friend.”

“You told me not to bring a notebook!”

Davy ignored him. “Listen. You go in strong, right? Make her  _ think _ you want to go out. She’ll let you down easy, but then you hit her with somethin’ else. Make yourself vulnerable for a bit. She’ll feel sorry for rejectin’ you so she’ll try and help you out in other ways to offset the guilt.”

Peter stared at Davy incredulously. “Wow. You really thought this through.”

“Years of practice.” Davy dusted off his shoulders. “Now she’s going to be rooting for us to win, ‘cause we’re the underdogs now.”

“What do you think she meant by ‘we can’t compete with the big bands?’”

“Eh, prob’ly nothing,” Davy shrugged. “Think she was being cheeky.”

“She did have nice cheeks,” Peter said absently.

Davy’s eyes went wide. “I don’t think that sounded like you wanted it to sound, mate.”

Peter gave him a confused look and Davy laughed. He could always count on Peter to brighten his mood.

When they got back home, Davy headed straight for the TV. All he wanted to do was relax.

“One last rehearsal before tomorrow?” Peter begged, clutching his guitar.

Davy sighed. “We’ve practiced all week  _ and _ we just played a gig. Don’t we deserve to rest a bit?”

Peter bit his lip. He was nervous, but it wasn’t because of the audition. Music was the best distraction and he was desperately hoping Davy would be on edge enough to want to fine-tune the performance. He was riding a confidence high, though, and Peter found that usually made Davy quite lax.

“You alright?” Davy asked when he finally looked up at Peter. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“...I can’t stop thinking about seeing Mike and Micky.”

Davy, who had just turned on the TV, shut it off after a few moments of contemplation. “I was not happy to see them at our set, you know.”

“I know, David. That’s the problem.”

“There’s a problem?” Davy asked, flopping down onto the couch.

Peter shrugged. “I don’t like bad blood.”

Davy huffed a laugh. “I know.”

“...You know the other day when you went to the music store?”

“And you wandered off like a stray dog? Yeah, I remember.”

“Well… I ran into Michael.”

“Mike? Again?”

Peter nodded. “He was just window-shopping. So I went over to say hi and he… he told me to leave him and Micky alone. That I… abandoned Micky and I make him doubt himself and I…” Peter swallowed the ever-growing lump in his throat. “I feel awful, Davy. Did I really do that to him? Mike made it sound like I…” Peter trailed off. His throat felt like it was having an allergic reaction. “Like I ruined his life or something.”

“My god. This Mike guy has some real issues,” Davy grumbled. “How dare he say that to you! That’s uncalled for, that is. Pickin’ you out for no reason.”

“But what if he’s right? What if I really  _ did _ ruin his life?” Peter’s eyes were reddening.

“Hey,” Davy soothed, putting his hand on Peter’s knee. “Don’t talk like that. Micky seems just fine to me. You didn’t do anything but… make his life more complicated for a few weeks, I bet.”

Peter wiped his eyes before continuing. “My dad used to tell me that, you know. He used to tell me I ruined his life.”

“Well, that’s just not true!”

“You don’t know that!” Peter cried. “He never liked my music. He thought it was primitive. Anything that wasn’t 1940s easy-listening jazz was primitive to him. For a college professor, he’s real closed-minded.”

“A college professor?”

“Yeah. Both my parents. Math and economics.”

Davy laughed at the thought of a well-mannered, uptight Peter. “Not sure what happened with you, then.”

“You’re telling  _ me _ .” Peter graciously accepted the tissue Davy handed him. “It’s been seven months, you know. Seven months since I went to New York and then here. Seven months since I’ve talked to my parents. They tried to control every aspect of my life, and I just walked away from it. They controlled the people I hung out with. The things I did. Did you know I went to math camp?”

Davy snorted. “That clearly didn’t turn out well.”

“Oh, it was horrible. I was so miserable when I came back that my grandfather gave me his old banjo as a gift. He figured I’d do well in school if I had a creative outlet.”

“That was it, then? The moment Peter Tork was born?”

Peter managed a smile. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“You didn’t ruin your dad’s life. I’m certain of that,” Davy said. “There’s no way someone like you could cause that much damage to a person. Me, though… I'm all my grandfather has and I haven’t talked to him in almost a year. I obviously don’t have a phone. He has no idea where I am. I could be dead for all he knows.” 

“Don’t say that!” Peter said, distressed. “Don’t you write to him?”

“I used to. But I stopped when things got hard. I didn’t want him to know that I… that I wasn’t accomplishing anything. And if I lied, he’d want to come see me perform. And there’s no way I could have pulled  _ that  _ off.”

Peter nodded in sudden understanding. “Success is important to you because it’s important to him.”

“‘S important to the whole family. My mum died when I was young, see, and my dad just… left. So my grandfather -- me mum’s dad -- took me in. Basically raised me. He was always disappointed in my dad for chickening out, so I suppose he wanted me to be everything he wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Davy. I had no idea.”

“‘Cause I don’t tell anyone,” Davy laughed, mostly in self-pity. 

“Well, I’m really happy you found it in your heart to tell me.”

Davy smiled dumbly. From anyone else, that would have sounded stupid. From Peter, it just felt right.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” Peter said, folding his legs in. “You can tell me anything.”

“I’m never this open with anyone, you know. This is a big deal.”

Peter giggled. “Oh, I bet.”

Davy fiddled with his fingers, trying to find the right words. He wasn’t used to saying things like this. He wasn’t used to  _ any _ of this. 

“Back in England, I thought I had lots of friends. But you’re only someone’s friend while you’re useful. When I moved to New York, it was supposed to be a new thing. A new me, really. I was going to make lots of friends.  _ American _ friends. I had Valerie, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t even like me all that much. It was even tougher here than it was back home. I just thought Americans were terrible people. I couldn’t trust anyone.” Davy paused to collect himself. “Until you showed up at Stardust that night. I don’t know why you ever hung around me, man, but it changed my life. It really did. Mike may think you’re puttin’ him on, but I know that’s not true, and I had no reason to ever trust you.”

“David, I…” Peter tried to get the words out, but he couldn’t. His eyes were welled up now for an entirely different reason.

“Oh my god, mate, don’t cry,” Davy laughed, handing Peter another tissue. “You’re so emotional.”

“It’s part of my charm,” Peter sobbed with a smile. Davy couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“Even when you’re crying you still smile. You’re somethin’ else, mate.” Davy watched Peter frantically wipe his eyes with a soaking wet tissue. “Jeez, are you alright?”

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” Peter managed to say between hiccups. “And we’re going to win this damn contest.”


	14. The audition

**Friday, September 18  
** **The day of the audition**

Micky decided he wanted to do something nice. It wasn’t like he  _ never _ did anything nice, but today was a special occasion. He had taken the day off of work and everything. On his way home yesterday, he had picked up the necessary ingredients. He never really cooked, so he was excited about this. More excited than usual.  
  
Mike awoke to the smell of bacon. It was disorienting for a moment; growing up, his house smelled like bacon every single weekend. He groaned, rolling his head to stretch out the kink in his neck. Sleeping on a couch that was an inch too small for him was starting to take its toll. He blinked the fog out of his eyes and saw Micky, holding a spatula and wearing an apron. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. 

Micky didn’t notice that Mike was awake because he was humming. Singing was out of the question at 8 a.m., but humming? That’s always fair game. He used to hum Beatles songs, or Temptations songs, or Drifters songs. Today, without even thinking about it, he was humming one of Mike’s songs; one of  _ their _ songs. He was practicing his drumming, too, when he wasn’t flipping something.  _ Tap tap tap _ . Flip an egg.  _ Tap taptap tap.  _ Flip a pancake.  _ Taptap tap taptap.  _ Flip the bacon. At this point, it was second nature. 

Micky couldn’t decide what type of pancakes to make, so he made them all. The counter was a mess of blueberries, bananas, chocolate chips and apples. He never really  _ had _ apple pancakes, but when he was shopping the apples just spoke to him. Plus, they’d go great with orange juice.

Mike watched in silent awe. He had never seen Micky cook before beyond heating up soup on the stove. If he had to guess, he would have figured that Micky wouldn’t know a fork from a spoon, considering he’d made that mistake a few times already.

Eventually, Micky caught Mike in his peripheral. He whirled around, spatula in hand, food all over his apron and a wicked smile on his face.

“Surprise!” he cheered, gesturing grandly to the mess behind him. “I’m making us a celebratory breakfast!”

Mike cocked his head. Did he say celebratory?

“I know, I know. We haven’t won anything.  _ Yet _ , _ ”  _ he grinned, whipping back to the stove when something started to smell like it was burning. “But we made it!” Standing on his toes, Micky reached up to grab four plates, two big and two small. He dropped some pancakes on the big plates, siphoned the eggs and bacon onto the small plates and carried all four of them over to the coffee table. Mike’s eyes went wide and he sat up, prepared to catch everything that was about to fall.

“I didn’t know what kind to make, so there’s all kinds of pancakes,” he explained, setting the plate down in front of Mike. “And eggs and bacon. Those are straightforward.” He rushed back to the kitchen, grabbing silverware and napkins, and stretched back to the couch. He took a seat next to Mike and began to triumphantly dig into his creation.

“Mmm! Oh, mmm. Dis is really good,” Micky smiled, mouth stuffed fuller than a squirrel. “C’mon! Eat up! Isf goo’, promise.”

“Y’don’t have t’spray your crumbs at me,” Mike mumbled, brushing his leg. 

“Hmph!” Micky swallowed an inhumane amount of food. “You know what today is?”

“...audition day?” Mike cautioned, slowly picking up his fork and cutting off a piece of fried egg.

“Well, yes. BUT! It’s also our three-week friendiversary.”

Mike stopped his fork midair. “Our  _ what _ ?”

“Our friendiversary! Three weeks ago today, you almost impaled me with your guitar. And look at us now! We’re eating a home cooked breakfast together, and tonight we’re playing our very first show as a band!”

Mike paused. He definitely wasn’t keeping track of time like that, and he wasn’t surprised that Micky was. But had it really only been a few weeks? That was the unbelievable part to him. It felt like yesterday that he was falling asleep on various patches of damp grass, but it also felt like ages ago that he hopped on a train to San Antonio. Really, his sense of time was disoriented. Even in an everyday setting, he still hadn’t returned to normal yet.

Mike finally put the egg in his mouth. It wasn’t half bad.

“Anyway, I think it’s pretty special. Considering everything that happened.” Micky shoved half a pancake in his mouth. “You know, you’ve really opened up to me. It’s real groovy. I know it’s not easy.”

Mike largely ignored Micky’s attempts at early morning philosophy. He was mostly surprised at how decent this breakfast was. Micky, though, was content with talking and not getting a response. He was just happy that Mike seemed to be enjoying the food. There was a lot of it.

“Can I…” Mike started, attempting to capitalize on a rare moment of silence. Why did he feel so silly asking for this? “Is there more?”

“More pancakes? Yeah! Eggs, no. Bacon… maybe.” Micky craned his neck. “Bacon, yes.” He turned back to Mike. “If you want more, you can just go get it. You don’t need to ask!”

Mike nodded. He already knew that, but he didn’t know why he didn’t feel comfortable  _ doing  _ that. He awkwardly walked over to the stove and placed some seconds on his plate.

“This is great. We’re gonna be well-rested  _ and _ well-fed. Bet the other groups can’t say  _ that!” _

“I’m sure they’ll eat something, Micky,” Mike chided.

“Yeah, well, will they have gotten a full eight hours of sleep? I doubt it!”

Mike sighed, but cracked a smile. 

Immediately after the last bite of food was eaten, Micky threw all the dirty dishes in the sink and insisted they run through their set one more time. Mike didn’t really feel the need, considering they did three run throughs of it the night before, but he resigned after he couldn’t take Micky’s whining. He knew Micky was high-energy, but this was an entirely different level than he was used to.

“Oh! That reminds me! I made you something.”

Mike blinked. “Made me something?”

“Yeah,” Micky blushed. He came out of his room holding his hands behind his back. “Close your eyes.”

“Micky, I’m not--”

“Close your eyes!”

“Okay, okay!” Mike squeezed his eyes shut.

“Now hold out your hand.”

“Micky--”

“Just do it!”

Mike tried his best to roll his closed eyes as he stuck his hand out. He flinched when he felt something cold and light on his skin.

“Okay, open ‘em.”

Sitting in Mike’s hand was… a shiny silver capo. He carefully turned it around, trying to find any flaws in it. There were none. 

“I made it for you, see. I’ve been working on it for a while, kind of.” Micky rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just smushing parts together and somehow it started to actually look like something. I thought, ‘Hmm, I should do something cool for Mike. He’s been such a good friend, he deserves something!’ So I thought, well, what would a guitarist want? A pick’s kind of lame, and I… are you okay?” Mike looked like he was about to cry. “You hate it, don’t you? It’s stupid. Ugh, I knew it--”

Mike cut him off with a stern  _ Micky _ . “...It’s amazin’. This is amazin’. Did you really make this?”

Micky shrugged. “Well, yeah. It wasn’t that hard, really.”

“Micky… thank you.” Their eyes met, and Micky’s panic melted into relief. 

“Yeah, man. Come on, now you gotta try it out!”

Mike was surprised that Micky was able to run through the set cleanly, considering he was bouncing off the walls like a rubber ball. Mike felt a headache coming on, but he had to repress it. Tonight was too important. Tonight was everything he had been working for. Lucky for him, the capo worked wonderfully. He sincerely couldn’t believe Micky just threw it together out of scrap metal. Real people got paid to make stuff like this. 

While they were packing their instruments away, the phone rang, making Mike jump. The phone hadn’t rang the entire time he had been here. He almost forgot it was there.

“Hello?” Micky practically yelled into the phone. “Oh. Hey, man. Yeah, things are groovy… yeah! Yeah. Sorry about that, I know it’s been a while. Things got kinda crazy. Yeah, we kind of just walked out and never came back, did we? Hah, sorry. Well, you never called either! Yeah, he’s with me. We can stop by! We just ate, though, so beware. Alright, man. See you.” Micky gingerly hung up. “That was Chuck,” he said, a nervous edge to his voice. “He was… wondering why we -- well, mostly you, but also me -- wondering why you auditioned and then never came back.”

Mike’s heart skipped a beat. He had completely forgotten.  
  
“I told him -- well, you just heard me. He’s not mad or anything, but he had been trying to look up a Mike Nesmith in the phonebook for a week and couldn’t find any trace of you. It’s my fault, man, I’m real sorry. I got us distracted with this new club and this contest thing, ‘cause I was supposed to sing your song but then I ended up singing it but for a different reason and--”

“It’s okay,” Mike cut in sharply. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Micky wasn’t convinced. “I told him we’d stop by. Just to say hi again and maybe set something up, I dunno. Is that okay?”

Mike fished through his thoughts for a moment. He couldn’t displace the sense of embarrassment he felt. It was beating through him like a heartbeat. Showing his face around places he had mentally moved on from always conjured up that sick feeling that something just wasn’t right. Today was the last day he wanted to feel that feeling, but here he was. Maybe confronting his fear would make it go away.

“Okay,” Mike finally sighed. 

Micky gave a small smile. “Groovy. Alright.”

As they silently slipped their shoes on, Micky shot a worried glance at Mike. He looked a little tired. 

“So I think we should try to be at the club tonight by 4,” Micky said once they started their walk to the diner. “Auditions starts at 7, but I think showing up early is gonna make us look really good. And maybe we can get some extra time to practice with real sound equipment.”

Mike didn’t want to push it, but the idea of getting to do a real-life sound check was appealing. Plus, getting lost in the music as early as possible would be a welcomed distraction. 

“I’m assuming you’re agreeing with me,” Micky quipped with a smirk after Mike didn’t respond right away. Mike just nodded.

“Hey man, I need you focused today,” Micky said, his voice dropping a bit. “Whatever’s on your mind, it’s cool, it’ll be alright, but today’s about the music, dig? We just gotta get through this.”

Mike sighed. The things he was worried about didn’t really matter right now, he supposed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. Micky took that as his cue to stop talking. 

It was abnormally hot out. September temperatures usually hovered around 80 degrees, but today it was pushing 90. By the time they got to Chuck’s, Micky was starting to sweat through his shirt. He wasn’t anticipating this heat.

“By god, it’s George junior himself!” came a cheerful voice from behind the counter. “I never thought I’d see you again. Thought you were be halfway to ‘Nam.”

“Hey, Chuck,” Micky half-attempted a smile. “Don’t worry, if I get drafted, you’ll at least be the 15th person I tell.”

“That’s no joke, kiddo,” Chuck grinned, coming around the counter and pulling Micky into a hug. “And good! You brought your friend!" He cautiously eyed them. "You  _ are  _ friends, right?”

Micky chuckled at how that question was more weighted than it needed to be. “Yeah, we’re friends. Look, man, I feel real bad that we just disappeared. It was my fault, really. We ended up going to that new club that opened up a few weeks ago and they’re doing a contest for amateur musicians. We got caught up in it.”

“You’re doing the contest? Oh, that’s grand! Swell, even! I think I actually heard those two talking about it.”

Chuck pointed to a booth in the back. Mike’s stomach dropped.  _ Of course they would be here. _

“Did you know that kid used to perform here? He was real good, too." Chuck ignored the look Mike and Micky exchanged. "Seems like this new club has been generating a lot of buzz,” Chuck wondered aloud. “The kids come here in the morning before school, all they talk about is how excited they are to go to the club to dance. In fact, it’s been getting harder and harder to find any live music to book.” 

“Well, if this contest thing doesn’t work out for us, we’d be more than happy to play here.”

“You mean it?” Chuck dramatically leaned in and raised his eyebrow. “You reeeeeally mean it?”

Micky forced a laugh. “Yes, we mean it! Right, Mike?” Micky looked over to his friend, who was impolitely staring at the booth in the back. Micky elbowed him out of his trance. “I said, right, Mike?”

“Wh--yeah, yeah,” Mike nodded frantically. “Of… course.”

Chuck tilted his head. “...Very convincing, Nesbutt.”

“I-it’s Nesm--”

“Kidding!” Chuck smiled. “Just a little joke there. I know your last name is Nesbomb. When is this contest, anyway?”

“Well, auditions are tonight at 7,” Micky said before Mike could retaliate. “And the actual contest is next Friday.”

“Auditions! Wow, this is the real deal, huh? Wish I could come, but you know how Fridays are.” He paused. “Then again, I bet your club will be packed with people. Maybe I can let Janine run things and I can come watch!”

“You want to come?” Micky was surprised. It had been months since Chuck talked to him, and the only reason he called was because of Mike.

“Oh, sure. If Magic Mike here is playing guitar and you’re singing, it oughta be a good show. You’ve really got a voice, George. I don’t know why you never let me hook you up with--”

“--It wouldn’t have mattered,” Micky countered quickly. “It’d be a groove if you came! The more support we get, the better chance we have at passing.”

“You know I’m always here to support you,” Chuck smiled, patting Micky's shoulder. “You too, Magic Mike.” He awkwardly reached out to pat Mike’s shoulder too. “Well, regardless of what happens. I want you two goofs to play here. I’ll pay you $50 each.”

“That’s… real nice of you, Chuck.”

“So it’s a deal?” Chuck stuck his hand out, staring at Micky until he shook it. “Great. Wonderful! Always a pleasure talking to you boys. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go evade my taxes.” He laughed as he went back behind the counter and into his office.

Micky heaved a sigh. “He’s really a handful.” Mike smirked at the irony before turning his attention to the booth in the back again. Only now, it was empty, and its occupants were headed straight for the door. Straight for them.

Davy and Peter stopped in their tracks. The four of them exchanged blank stares for a moment, fighting the urge to start yelling  _ What are you doing here?  _ at each other in a public diner. It was Micky who finally broke the silence.

“Good luck tonight,” he said, trying his hardest to sound sincere. 

Davy nodded. “You too,” he said after a moment, only looking at Micky. Mike and Peter kept starting, silently, confusingly, before Davy took a step toward the door and Peter followed. 

“Gosh, we gotta stop running into them,” Micky mumbled to himself, waiting a reasonable amount of time before going through the doors. Mike had a feeling that their encounters would never stop.

Their walk back home was mostly silent. Micky was mumbling something under his breath, but Mike couldn’t tell what he was saying and he wasn’t about to ask. It wasn’t until they passed the thrift store that he spoke up.

“Hey! Wouldn’t it be really cool if we had matching outfits?” he asked suddenly, screeching to a stop.

Mike looked back. “Uh--”

“--Yeah!” Micky cut him off, growing more eager by the second. “I think we’d look real groovy if we wore the same shirt. Make us look really put together, just like the Beatles. C’mon!” He ran through the doors before Mike could even answer. Mike found him frantically thumbing through shirts in the back.

“I know you don’t like bright colors,” Micky started, “but I think red would look really good on you.” He held up a bright red collared shirt. “It’s only two dollars!”

“That’s a lot of buttons…” Mike muttered.

“I think it’s groovy,” Micky said. “Classy, but not too stuck up. Bright, but not too flashy. And look!” He pulled up an identical shirt. “There’s two in our size!”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Of course there are.”

“There’s… four of them, actually.”

“Maybe ‘cause nobody wanted ‘em.” Mike stared down Micky for a moment. “We are  _ not _ getting all four.”

“Aw! But--”

“ _ No, _ ” Mike insisted. “There are only two of us.”

“But what if the shirt rips! Or-or what if I spill spaghetti sauce on it! You know what my relationship with sauce is like, Mike.”

“Micky -- no,” Mike shook his head. “C’mon. We gotta get back and start gettin’ ready. Just buy the shirts and let’s go.”

“Buy  _ all four _ shirts?” Micky asked with a grin.

Mke shot Micky a death glare, and Micky quickly grabbed the two shirts and scrambled up to the front counter.

“Here,” he said, handing one of the shirts to Mike. “Our official uniform.”

Mike turned the shirt around in his hands as they walked back. It was a soft material -- almost flannel, but not quite there. He hoped it wasn’t so heavy that he would sweat like a pig on stage. Micky seemed content at the thought of them matching, though, and that was enough for Mike to get behind the idea. Micky was right, too -- red  _ did _ look pretty good on him.

But Mike couldn’t satisfy the itch that was scratching at the back of his mind. Was it nerves? Maybe. But Mike felt nervous before every audition he’s ever done. This was different. He gaped overhead, watching as the fast-moving clouds covered the sun for brief moments of time before passing on. And the air kind of smelled like the rain was about to come down.

* * *

“I think 4 might have been too early.”

Micky and Mike were standing alone in an empty club, the only guests in a room full of employees. They had to take a cab over so Micky could bring his drums. 

“Are you two here for the audition?” a short, balding man waddled up to the pair.

“Yes sir,” Mike said, holding up his guitar.

“Well, you’re quite early, you know.”

“Really? Couldn’t tell,” Micky mumbled.

“You can wait over there.” He pointed to a cluster of tables and chairs before eyeing Micky’s disassembled drum kit. “And you can put your drums backstage.”

“Hey, wait!” Micky said as the man started to waddle away. “What are the rules of this thing anyway? Nobody’s told us.”

The man looked at Micky like he had three heads before grunting, grabbing a sheet of paper off a large stack resting on a nearby table and shoving it in his chest. 

“Hmm… okay. So we only get to play three songs, but we can’t exceed 15 minutes. We get two minutes to set up and break down, which counts to the 15 minute limit. Not sure who’s playing five-minute songs, but we should be okay.” Micky skimmed over a few more things before turning to Mike. “Do you know how to use an amp?”

Mike stared at him blankly. 

“Sorry. Dumb question. You know that. Wait, your guitar isn’t even electric. You don’t even need one. Sorry. I’m nervous.” Micky was firing off short sentences at lightning speed. 

“You gotta calm down,” Mike said, taking a seat. “Go put those drums away.”

Micky nodded, quickly rolling pieces of his kit backstage and jogging back to the table.

“Do you think we get to go first ‘cause we got here first?” he asked, sitting down next to Mike.

“Dunno,” Mike shrugged, reaching for the paper. “Does it say?”

“I didn’t see anything about a lineup.”

“That’s ‘cause there ain’t one.” 

The two looked up. Standing in front of them was the bartender. 

“Forgive the accent,” she joked. “I remember you, though. From opening night. You refused to buy a drink. Name’s Emily.”

“You remember that?” Mike questioned.

“Well, sure. I could never forget that silly hat.” Mike blushed and tugged at the edges. “You two are here awfully early.”

“Don’t remind us,” Micky groaned. “Can we practice before anyone else gets here? Do a sound check?”

“That’s not up to me. John’s our manager, and I dunno where he is right now. But my guess would be you just have to sit here and wait like everyone else.”

“Well, waiting with you might not be the worst thing,” Micky said smoothly, wiggling his eyebrows.

Emily scoffed. “Please. Get in line behind the British kid.”

Mike and Micky exchanged a glance that was nothing short of horrified. 

“British kid?”

She crossed her arms. “Yeah. You’re not the only one to ever hit on me. You’ve got foreign competition, too, so that doesn't bode well for either of you.”

“What did he look like?” Micky couldn’t help it.

Emily’s face contorted into confusion. “Uh. Short, brown hair, cute face… really nice lips actually, now that I think about it… why? Do you know him or something?”

“Yeah,” Mike grumbled. “We know him.”

“How do  _ you _ know him?” Micky pressed.

Emily shrugged. “He came in the other day asking for advice. What’s it to you, anyway?” 

“Nothing,” Micky said quickly. “Just wondering. Don’t worry about it.”

“...Uh, alright. Let me know if I can get you guys anything. We’ve got bottomless water.” Emily gave them a weird look before walking off. 

“What’s Davy doing asking a bartender for advice?” Micky questioned.

“He’s tryin’ to cheat! He came here to woo her and get her on their side so they can win!”

“Are you sure? That’s kind of a crazy thing to do.”

“I’m sure of it!” Mike whisper-shouted. “That little weasel.”

“Woah, man,” Micky held his hands up. “It’s not that big a deal. Davy’s just a flirt, I bet he was--”

“--they’re cheaters. I knew it. There ain’t nothin’ good about those two.”

“Didn’t we try and cheat too? When we watched them at the Gaslight?”

“Absolutely not. Watchin’ ain’t cheatin’.”

“You need to calm down, babe. Why are you freaking out?”

“Why aren’t you?” Mike nearly yelled back. “Cheatin’ to win ain’t right. We worked hard for this, Mick! You wanna see those guys beat us just because the house staff thinks they’re cute?”

“You’re overthinking this, Mike. And when _ I _ tell you you’re overthinking, you know it’s a problem.”

“No, Mick, you just ain’t seein’ the big picture. You should know it better than anybody! It don’t matter how talented you are as long as you know the right people.”

Micky opened his mouth to retaliate, but stopped. He had watched countless people in LA catch their big break because their mom’s cousin’s friend knew the casting director for some TV show. He cycled through roommate after roommate, watching from afar as they moved on to bigger and better things while he stayed behind. He still thought Mike was overreacting, but he wasn’t one to ignore a gut feeling, however bad it was.

“...so, what? Are we supposed to do something about it? Run and tell the manager on them?” 

“I don’t know,” Mike admitted. His fists were clenched.

“I don’t think we  _ can _ do anything except play our hearts out. Leave it all on stage, y’know? Give ‘em a performance they can’t forget.”

“What’s the point!” Mike cried, slamming his fist down on the table. Micky’s eyes went wide in surprise, and a few waiters looked over at him in concern.

“ _ Mike, _ ” Micky said harshly. He felt uncomfortable scolding somebody, least of all Mike. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, man, but I don’t like it. I don’t like seeing you like this. There’s nothing we can do about it right now, okay? This is just the audition. Nobody’s winning anything tonight. We have to focus on getting through this.”

Mike took a few deep breaths, feeling the heat of Micky’s stare on him.

“Okay,” he said finally. “‘M sorry. I’ll focus.”

“Good.” Micky waved his hand to flag down Emily. “Can we get some of that bottomless water?” She came back with two full glasses, carefully placing them down on the table and eyeing Mike. 

“Everything alright?”

“Hm? Yeah,” Micky said. “Yeah. Just some pre-audition nerves!”

Emily smiled sympathetically. “Well, good thing you got here early, then.”

“Yeah,” Micky said softly as she walked away. “Good thing.”

* * *

Slowly but surely, the crowd filed in. Mike didn’t say much, and Micky took that as a good sign. He unsuccessfully tried to flirt with Emily as the hours passed, which was an endless source of entertainment for him, but Mike wasn’t happy about it. She was the enemy, after all. But Micky told Mike it was either flirting with the bartender or practicing his stand-up routine, and Mike happily accepted the former.

When Peter and Davy finally arrived around 6, the place was mostly full. They didn’t see Mike and Micky in the corner, so they wandered backstage and hung out there while they skimmed over the instructions sheet and patiently awaited direction. 

“Gee, this place is really buzzing,” Peter said. He was sitting cross-legged on top of an amp.

“I’ll say.” Davy was nervously shaking his tambourine. “There’s got to be at least a dozen bands here!”

“And 15 minutes per band, we’re going to be here for almost four hours!”

“You sure you don’t want to go back and get that math degree?” Davy smiled.

“David! Not tonight! I’m trying to stay positive.”

“Didn’t think you had any other emotion besides positive, mate.” Davy patted his friend on the back. “This is exciting. I recognize some of these blokes, too.”

“Do you really?”

“Yeah! Those guys over there, they call themselves the Four Martians. I only recognize the ridiculous getup.”

Peter giggled. “They look so silly.”

“Yet somehow, they get gigs! One of life’s greatest mysteries.” 

“Oh! What about them?” Peter pointed to a trio decked out in black.

“Those are the Foreign Agents. Rumor has it they’re  _ actually  _ foreign secret agents masquerading as a band! Hiding in plain sight.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Davy shrugged. “We’ll have to keep an eye on ‘em.”

“What about--”

“--Peter, I don’t know  _ everybody _ .”

“But soon, everybody will know us!”

Davy flashed a toothy grin. “Yeah, man. That’s the spirit--oh.” Davy’s eyes caught a dark green hat bobbing through the crowd. 

“Is it them?” Peter asked. Davy nodded. 

“Hey, man, everythin’s gonna be alright, yeah? Just ignore ‘em.”

“There’s something about Michael that I just can’t place.” 

“I think it’s pretty obvious. He’s a right jerk.”

Peter shook his head. “No, that’s not it. There’s something else.”

“Look, mate, the more you worry about him, the more distracted you’ll be when it’s our turn to  _ audition! _ ”

“But--”

“Peter! I promise. It’s fine,” Davy put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Let’s worry about remembering our set, alright?”

Peter sighed heavily. “Alright.”

“...you do remember our set, right?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I wish they had told us how many songs we’d be performing though. We have to cut a few.”

Davy nodded toward the growing mass of musicians swirling around backstage like a school of fish. “I don’t think they thought this through very much, mate. We’re fine. We’ll do my song,  _ A Summer Song _ and  _ I Wanna Hold Your Hand _ banjo style.”

“You think they’ll like the banjo? I mean, this place is way more hip than the Gaslight. What if the boo me offstage?”

“What-- that won’t happen! Come on, Pete, we’ve performed plenty of times. This is no different. You’ve done auditions before, and so have I. There’s a lot of blokes here, but we just have to focus on bein’  _ us _ . We’re Peter and Davy, man!”

At this, Peter smiled. Why  _ was _ he freaking out so much? Why  _ couldn’t  _ he stop thinking about Mike and Micky? He’d have to worry about it later. Right now, he was doing what he loved with his best friend. And at the end of the day, that’s all that mattered to him.

“Yeah, you’re right!” Peter said triumphantly, hopping off his spot on the amp. “We’re Peter and Davy!”

Peter’s sudden display of excitement elicited a few head turns from the nearby musicians, but it didn’t bother him. It did, however, bother Mike, who was watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye while silently seething.  _ Look at ‘em. So smug, knowing they're gonna win only ‘cause they cheated.  _ None of the other musicians were that enthusiastic or optimistic-locking. Not even Micky, the poster child for both enthusiasm and optimism, was putting on a brave face. He, like Mike, was nervously glancing around the room, looking for signs of weakness from the others. For the most part, everyone was confused about the process more than they were nervous about it.

As soon as a voice yelled “LISTEN UP!” from somewhere near the stage, a hush fell over the crowd. The manager, John, went on to explain the rules straight off the sheet of paper everyone had already read, which everyone patiently sat through as they waited for the lineup to be announced. Twenty bands were listed, but only fifteen showed up. Mike and Micky were 7th to go, while Peter and Davy were 13th.

“Lucky 13!” Peter whispered happily.

“I thought 13 was the unlucky number,” Davy whispered back.

“It’s lucky in Eastern culture! Thirteen is very auspicious in Hinduism.”

“Man, I hate when you get like this,” Davy muttered, shaking his head.

Micky leaned over to Mike with similar thoughts. “Seven’s a lucky number!” 

“We’re gonna need all the luck we can get,” Mike mumbled back, to which Micky stuck his tongue out.

“Alright, if we got no questions, it’s time to get this ball rolling!” John yelled from the front, evoking cheers from the musicians. “Let’s have a gas, alright? WOO!” He cheered as he burst through the stage curtains. “Howdy folks, how we all doing tonight…?”

Everyone anxiously shuffled around backstage as the bands began to perform. Setup and takedown was frantic, but the music in between was downright groovy. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief when it became clear that none of the bands were cringe-inducing. More than anything, they wanted the rock and roll music scene to thrive.

Emily was hustling around backstage, getting the musicians water, snacks and just about anything they wanted. She bumped into Davy a few times, and each time Mike was watching intently from across the room. 

“When are you guys going?” she asked, handing a glass of water to Davy.

“13th. Second to second to last.”

“Ohh, that’s unlucky.”

“The all-knowing Peter says otherwise!” Davy teased, which earned him a playful punch on the arm. 

“Well, good luck,” she smiled, quickly moving on to serve her next customer. Mike practically had steam coming out of his ears as he watched the two interact.

“C’mon, babe, we’re up next,” Micky nudged Mike in the side. “Are you ready?”

Mike nodded.

“You remember the set?”

Nod.

“You’re not going to start panicking and run offstage and force me to perform the whole thing solo?”

A chuckle, and a nod.

“Good.” A smile. “We’ve got this.”

Micky anxiously tapped on the dismantled drums when the band in front of them started their takedown. He just hoped he’d be able to get the kit together in two minutes.

“Ladies and gents, that was the Popsicles! Give ‘em a hand!” There was a smattering of applause, which scared Micky more than anything else. He thought they were pretty good, but the crowd didn’t quite agree. 

“Next up… we got two fellas named Mike and Micky.”

Mike and Micky exchanged a nervous glance before walking through the curtain to a small applause.

“You know, I was going to put us down as the M&Ms, but I thought we’d get copyrighted,” Micky whispered. 

“Thank god you didn’t,” Mike muttered, rushing to the front of the stage to begin setting up the mic. His cheap acoustic fender didn’t have an amp plug-in, so he’d have to get creative with the sound system.

Naturally, he was done setting up before Micky, so he took a moment to think about where he was. Three weeks ago, he had woken up alone on the damp grass of a public park with a broken guitar, dirty, torn-up clothes and no hope. Today, he was wearing a brand-new red shirt and holding his guitar with a shiny new capo on it. He was staring at the floodlights that were bathing him in warmth that felt more like he was basking in sunlight than squinting through a harsh glare. Some people were looking at him, waiting for the show to begin. Some weren’t; they were just there to hang with friends, get a drink and dance. Mike wanted them to dance. He wanted his music to mean as much to them as it did to him. Maybe that wouldn’t happen tonight, but maybe it would. Mike had no idea what would unfold in the next 15 minutes, but here he was, standing up on a stage and looking out at all the people who used to cast him disapproving glances. Now they were either waiting for him to perform or not caring that he was there at all. He was one with the crowd.

He was normal.

“I’m all set,” Micky said from the back, tightening one last knob. “You ready to do this?”

Mike ran his fingers down the neck of his guitar. He knew it was tuned. He took one last glance at the crowd, who had fallen a little silent after the mics had faintly picked up Micky’s question. Mike turned to his friend, gave a nod and strummed the opening riff to the song that started it all.

And the room fell silent and the lights went dark. Mike was staring at himself from some other plane, he figured, because he was down in the crowd but there was nothing but blackness around him. He was watching himself; or what he thought was himself. He was picturing what he looked like. Cool, confident. Sexy, even. Working the guitar like a spider spinning a web, like it was knowledge he was born with. He was someone who knew exactly what he was doing and was damn good at it to boot. He could see no crowd, feel no lights. He could only hear his music. _Their_ music.

The set went without a hitch. All the mics worked. His guitar was loud enough. Micky’s drumsticks didn’t dramatically slip out of his hands and fly into the crowd. In fact, Micky  _ killed it _ . Mike almost felt bad sticking him behind the drums while he played the role of frontman. Micky was truly a natural showman; the few times Mike turned around while he was in the groove, Micky was banging his head and smiling and laughing while singing almost flawlessly. Microphones did wonders for his voice. It passed through hearts and souls and bodies more than just eardrums. Micky didn’t just make himself heard -- he was  _ felt _ .

Mike couldn’t believe it. He saw a few people standing in the crowd for them as they waved themselves offstage, Chuck included. He did that. His  _ music _ did that.

“Mike! MikemikemikemikemikeMIKE!” Micky rolled his drums into the corner and pulled his friend into the biggest hug he’s ever given. Mike swore he felt his bones crunch, but he was okay with it. Micky even lifted him off the ground and spun around like a married couple before finally pulling away. “Oh, man! That was AMAZING! You should have seen yourself, man! The way you moved around that stage and sang and played guitar, I can’t believe it. You’re a natural!”

Mike had to laugh. Out of elation, surprise and amazement. For all the positive emotions he was feeling, the only way he could express it was by smiling.

“Me? A natural? You kiddin’? You shoulda _seen_ your self! I almost wanted to yank you from behind those drums, you belong in front, babe!”

Micky smiled. Mike had never called him babe before. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten a gig before. You’re incredible. Honestly. I can’t believe it, I still can’t.”

“I couldn’t get a gig before ‘cause I didn’t have  _ you _ ,” Mike said, poking Micky in the chest. “Now it’s all makin’ sense.”

Micky couldn’t do anything but let out another high-pitched squeal of excitement. “Man, we don’t even know if we’re gonna pass. This isn’t even the real contest!”

Mike shrugged. “There’s no way we can lose.”

From across the room, Davy and Peter watched Micky and Mike celebrate, even though they were trying their hardest to look nonchalant. Davy was almost rooting for them to crash and burn because he didn’t want to admit it -- Mike and Micky were their chief competition. They were only halfway through, but it was obvious that their performance was the best so far. They certainly got the best crowd reaction. Davy stared at his tambourine, wondering how it was ever going to compete with Micky’s drumming.

“They were amazing,” Peter muttered. His voice was uncharacteristically melancholy. 

“Yeah,” Davy agreed. “They really were.”

“I didn’t know Mike could perform like that.”

“Me neither.”

“And Micky’s voice is beautiful.”

“It is.”

“I didn’t recognize any of those songs. Do you think they wrote them all?”

“They must’ve.”

It wasn’t like their confidence had taken a hit, but they were certainly shaken up a bit. Mike had done something they weren’t expecting -- put on a show. Putting on a show was  _ Davy’s _ thing. It was  _ Davy's _ plan. He had gone out of his way to flirt with Emily to get that information, and Mike stole his idea without even knowing it. If Mike was going to usurp them, then maybe he could do something to get under his skin, too. He noticed that every time Emily came up to Davy, Mike would be looking at them with some kind of sour look on his face, for whatever reason. If that was all it took to rile Mike up, then Davy was going to make sure it happened.

Davy eyed Mike, waiting until he came back down to earth and inevitably looked over at him.

“Be right back,” Davy whispered, taking off before Peter could say anything. He snuck around to the main room, scanning the employees behind the bar before finding what he was looking for.

“Davy! Everything alright?” Emily asked, surprised.

“Peter needs another water. He gets a dry throat before every show.”

“Why didn’t he just ask me himself?”

“He… he gets real bad stage fright, too. He stays frozen in place. Can’t move. And I’ll use any excuse to spend more time with you.”

Emily rolled her eyes as she grabbed another glass. “You want me to come back and talk him off the ledge? Seen plenty of talented people get crippled by stage fright.”

“Oh, yes. That’d be wonderful,” Davy smiled. He didn’t even have to _ask_.

“But you guys have performed before,” Emily mused, joining Davy as they walked backstage. “Wouldn’t he be used to this by now?”

“Peter works much differently than a normal person,” Davy joked. When Peter saw Davy walking back with Emily, he gave him a disapproving look. Davy shot him one back that said  _ Just go with it _ . 

“He doesn’t look that nervous.”

“Trust me, he is,” Davy mumbled, pushing ahead to get to Peter first. “Peter! Got you that glass of water you asked for.”

“I didn’t--” Peter started before Davy gave him a small kick in the shin. “Oh. Water! Yeah! H2 and O, living together in harmony.”

“Just take the water, Peter.”

“Right. Take the water.” He held the glass in his hand for a moment. “Can I drink it?”

Davy rolled his eyes but managed a laugh. “See, he gets delusional when he’s nervous.”

Emily chuckled, trying to offer her best advice to keep Peter from succumbing to his nerves. Peter played along, even though he assumed Davy was trying to get something out of her. He just didn’t quite know what.

But Mike knew. Mike knew exactly what Davy was doing. He was trying to get under his skin, and the worst part was that it was  _ working _ . Right there, for everyone to see. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but he had sat silently and observed human behavior long enough to know that she was dishing out  _ advice _ . He couldn’t believe it. He had just had the best 15 minutes of his life, but seeing Emily mingling with those two brought him back down to earth so fast his head was spinning. How did things like this keep happening? No matter how good something seemed to go for Mike, the default setting the universe seemed to have on him was distress.

Micky was unaware. Mike wasn’t going to drag him into this. Micky was laughing and smiling and talking with some of the other bands, gossiping about the crowd and fawning over the cute girl in the yellow dress. Mike was left alone to his devices, choosing to get angry over Davy’s meddling. Sometimes being angry felt good. Mike almost missed it, but he was starting to feel the static.

“Alright alright! We’re coming down to the wire here.” John’s cheerful voice interrupted Mike’s seething. “Please give a hand to our next group, Peter and Davy!”

“That’s us!” Davy said, shaking his tambourine for good measure. 

“I feel much better now,” Peter smiled, handing the empty glass back to Emily. “Thanks for your help!”

“Good luck!” she waved as the two took the stage. Naturally, their performance was great. Davy was feeling himself, too, with the knowledge that the crowd was enjoying their performance and it was probably driving Mike mad. Peter wasn’t actually that nervous to begin with, but Emily’s advice was actually so helpful that he melted into the music more than normal. When they closed with  _ I Want To Hold Your Hand,  _ Peter took advantage of the extra time they saved from a quick set-up to fire off a solo. The crowd ate it up. 

Davy was glowing when they returned backstage. He was surprised to find Emily waiting there with a smile on her face.

“You know, I wasn’t going to stay back here, but once I heard you guys I had to tell you how  _ amazing _ that was! I really thought you were going to bomb.”

“Gee, thanks,” Davy said sarcastically. 

“Hey, that's a real compliment. I'm a hard nut to crack.”

“Well, it’s all thanks to you, love,” Davy smiled, delicately taking her hand and giving it a light kiss. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Right then and there, Mike almost blew up. But he wasn’t going to do that here. Nobody was batting an eye to Davy’s obnoxious flirting, so he wasn’t going to make himself the villain with tons of witnesses around. He stuck himself in a corner and sat with folded arms as he waited for the last two bands to finish. John explained to the crowd that they would be narrowing the field of fifteen down to seven based on an audience vote, and curious whispers rippled through the huddles of musicians that nervously waited backstage.

“Audience vote! How exciting!” Micky bounced back over to Mike. “Sorry, I just got to talking with those guys, they were the ones who came on before us. The Popsicles? Weird name, but groovy guys. Told them all about us and they really dig how we write all our own stuff -- are you alright?”

“Just nervous,” Mike replied in a low voice.

“We’ve got nothing to be nervous about, man! The audience dug us!”

Mike didn’t reply. He just kept staring off into space. Micky was too excited to notice.

After waiting around for what felt like hours, John pulled the curtains open and called all the bands to the stage. After a lengthy speech about how he was “very honored to showcase our local talent,” he let a long, excited silence draw out.

“And now, we’re going to announce our top seven vote-getters in no particular order. Remember, we’re calling these lucky seven back on the 27th for our amateur night contest, where the winner will get paid lots of money to play here every week.” Everyone held their breath as he shuffled through some papers. 

“...The Foreign Agents… the Four Martians… the Popsicles… Peter and Davy… the Kittens… the Parakeets… and Mike and Micky!”

There was a loud cheer from the crowd, clearly elated that their favorite groups got through. Micky pulled Mike into another hug, but Mike could only look at Peter and Davy, who smiled at each other like they had just gotten away with something. 

And inside Mike’s mind, it was rumbling like thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy balls! this took for-fucking-EVER to write! i wanted to really get this right and honestly i planned for this to be longer but when i was writing it all out, i thought it would be better to split up into two parts. plus, this was getting dumb long (as is usual with my chapters) so splitting it was better. i hope you enjoyed this chapter. again, i've never done anything remotely like this before, so i can only hope you're having as much fun reading as i am writing :)


	15. The fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mention of blood

Most of the bands had moved on. The ones that won were celebrating at the bar, the ones that lost had started the long walk home. Peter didn’t feel much like drinking, and surprisingly, neither did Davy. He didn’t refuse some drinks when Emily smuggled them to him, but he only hung around the bar for about a half hour before deciding there were better ways to celebrate than keeping Peter somewhere he didn’t want to be. Since the club was close to the park, they decided to sit out there and reflect. 

Mike let Micky have his fun. He was mostly waiting for Peter and Davy to leave, so when they finally did, Mike insisted they take a walk and take it easy, especially since Micky had to be at the mechanic’s in the morning. After guzzling a few beers with Chuck and flirting with countless women, he resigned to the fact that Mike was probably right. Tonight had gone so perfectly, he wasn’t really in a position to refuse.

Mike had seen Davy and Peter head to the park, so that’s where he took Micky. They were sitting on a bench, talking. Staring up at the sky. Laughing.

“Mike? Slow down, man, jeez!” Micky had to jog to catch up with him, and it was only then did he notice Peter and Davy sitting on the bench. 

“Mike… what are we doing? Mike?”

But Mike wasn’t answering. He refused to. The minute he opened his mouth, he would start screaming. And Micky wasn’t his target. 

It didn’t take long for Peter and Davy to hear the voices and see the figures. Peter was confused, but Davy was terrified. He knew exactly what was happening.

He stood up, puffing his chest out to seem as tall as he possibly could. It was pointless.

“YOU!” Mike yelled, pointing a sharp finger at Davy. His eyes were so dark he didn’t notice how much Davy was actually trembling.

“What’s going on, mate?” Davy asked in his most innocent voice. It was times like these he was grateful to be an actor.

“Don’t gimme that  _ shit! _ ” Mike spat. “What do you think you’re doin’, huh? What kinda  _ shit _ are you pullin’?”

“Mike! Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you!” Micky yelled in surprise. But there was no getting through to him.

“You think you can just  _ cheat _ your way into winnin’? You think  _ flirtin’s _ gonna help?!” Mike pressed himself up against Davy, which wasn’t hard to do considering the height difference.

“You need to calm down, man,” Peter said sharply, trying to wedge his way in between the two.

“I’ll calm down once you and your  _ fuckin’  _ friend backs out of the contest!”

“Mike!” Micky gasped, more surprised at his display of anger than anything else.

“What?” Peter cried. “No way! We worked hard for this, man, just like you. Jealousy won’t solve anything.”

“I AIN’T JEALOUS!” Mike snapped. “You didn’t work hard! Not like us. Not like  _ me _ . I’m sick of people like you takin’ things from people like me and Micky.” He jabbed a finger into Davy’s chest, and he flinched.

“Hey, woah, don’t drag me into this,” Micky warned, holding his hands up and backing away. 

“What the hell are you goin’ on about?” Davy tried to raise his voice, but only found that it made him tremble harder.

“You. Flirtin’ with that bartender!” When Davy tried to take a step back, Mike was there to loom over him again. “Intentionally tryin’ to get under my skin! Well, I’m not having it!”

“Oh, come off it. Y-you’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting?! The nerve you have t’say that to me!” Mike flung his arms out, and Davy winced. “You’re tryin’ to cheat your way into winnin’ ‘cause you don’t know any other way of livin’.”

“You don’t know me at all!” Davy yelled, gaping up at Mike and trying to mask his shakiness. “You’ve been bein’ a complete arse to Peter for no reason ‘cause you’re just paranoid! Emily’s my friend, and all I did was talk to her! Am I not  _ allowed _ to talk with friends? Did you see  _ that  _ on the rule sheet?!”

“I’m completely within reason! You intentionally brought Emily backstage to mess with me. Admit it! You did!”

“So what if I did!” Davy had to take a moment as tears pricked the corner of his eyes. “You have no respect for other people! You’ve completely lost the plot, screamin’ at me in a public park and assumin’ I was ever trying to cheat! You sulk around and chew out my friend for no other reason than you’re afraid to admit that everyone else is just better than you, you manky twit! Micky’s a way better musician than you, and way nicer, too. You’re just jealous because people  _ like _ him and everybody  _ HATES  _ you!”

The fist came flying so fast that nobody had a chance to react.

Davy crumpled to the ground, but he managed to soften the landing before his hands flew to the side of his head. Peter immediately dove after him, and Micky ran up to Mike, grabbed him around the waist and yanked him away. Mike was breathing so fast he thought he was going to short-circuit himself.

“What the  _ fuck! _ ” Micky yelled. He was awestruck. He couldn’t believe it. When Mike said he had a bad temper… he wasn’t kidding.

“Mike! You better answer me! What the  _ hell _ did you just do!” Micky tried to look into Mike’s eyes, but there was nothing there. It was completely blank. Mike was still holding his fist up, staring off into space as if he were possessed.

“Jesus, I--I-I’m so sorry, Davy,” Micky stammered, his hair balled in his fists. He was rapidly turning from Mike to Peter to Davy and back to Mike. “I have some change, I can call an ambulance--”

“Don’t.” That was all Peter needed to say to get Micky to shut up. His voice was dismal. Dour. Monotone. He didn’t sound shocked. It was like he was used to this happening.

Micky’s bottom lip was trembling. He couldn’t help but feel like this was all his fault. Mike was his responsibility. Davy was on the ground, bleeding, crying. He was holding the side of his head with shaking hands as Peter rubbed his back and used the bottom of his shirt to dab away the blood. Davy couldn’t look anywhere but down. His whole jaw was clenched, as if he was trying to hold back tears, but his face was glistening under the lamp. His perfect hair was messy and sweaty.

Micky mumbled gibberish under his breath, trying to comprehend what just happened and what he had to do now. He grabbed Mike’s arm, not even waiting for him to move on his own. 

“...C’mon,” Micky finally said, realizing there was nothing he could do right now to help. He was defeated. “We’re going home.”

Mike tried his hardest not to look back, but he couldn’t help it. 


	16. The aftermath (Alternate title: The concert)

When Micky was 12, he got into a huge fight with his sisters. It was one of those typical older brother moments, where he yelled and screamed and cried for hours before his parents put him in timeout. He sat facing the wall in a small chair in the corner of the playroom. His punishment was that he wasn’t allowed to talk while his sisters played with all their toys behind him, or else he’d have to sit in the chair for even longer. Each word he whined was an extra 15 minutes. What was supposed to be a half-hour long punishment turned into almost two hours, and he eventually realized what was going on. The less he spoke, the sooner he could get it over with.

Those two hours were the longest amount of time Micky had ever gone without saying a word.

Now, he was sitting cross-legged on his bed with the bedroom door open. His elbows were resting on his knees and his hands were cradling his face. He was staring at the wall with a pained expression on his face. Words came easy to Micky , but not in this moment. Even if he wanted to say something, he didn’t think he had the energy for it. It was best for now to stay quiet. Maybe it’d help him get over it sooner.

It wasn’t unusual for Mike to go hours without talking. It was, however, unusual for Micky, which was a thought chiefly on Mike’s mind as he sat alone on the couch. Micky hadn’t said anything since  _ we’re going home _ , which terrified Mike more than the prospect of having to go out in public again. Mike hadn’t been able to muster up an apology yet, but he was expecting to be eased into it. Micky would ask him why he did it before asking him what was wrong before telling Mike everything would be okay. And _then_ Mike would apologize. But Micky didn’t give any indication that everything would be okay. In fact, the silence was making everything worse.

So the hours ticked by. Micky never closed his door, but Mike closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep on the couch, one arm dangling off the side and the other tucked safely under his body. Micky couldn’t sleep. He was afraid to. He was afraid of what he was going to see when he closed his eyes. Would it be Davy, shivering on the ground, completely helpless? Would it be Peter, frazzled and incredulous, trying his best to comfort his friend? Or would it be Mike, or the person that was supposed to be Mike, but instead he was just a remorseless, blank slate? He didn’t want to see any of it. He was so far removed from this conflict, yet it was he who was bearing the biggest burden. He liked all three of them. He could probably pick out their flaws if he was forced to, but that wasn’t in his best interest. He liked to think he was friends with Peter, and he knew Peter wasn’t the kind of person to refuse friendship. Davy was a little unpredictable, but Micky still liked him. But Mike was his  _ best _ friend. His brother, almost. They had a lot in common, even if Mike would never admit it. Given the chance, he was confident they could all be friends. He just wished he understood what was going on with Mike.

As if on cue, Micky heard a distressed whine from the living room. His clock said 2:17 in the morning. Had he really been thinking for that long? He slowly unfurled his legs, which had long ago fallen asleep, and shook them out before sliding off his bed. He padded to the threshold and poked his head around the corner. He watched in shock at Mike thrashing around the couch, mumbling incoherent things and whining periodically. Mike had never done anything like this before; not that Micky knew anyway. He was always asleep. Did Mike do this every night and he just never noticed? Either way, he couldn’t bear to watch. He ran over to the couch and began to shake his friend.

“Mike… Mike! Snap out of it, man, you’re just dreaming! It’s just a bad dream!  _ Mike _ !”

Mike gasped, then opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily, and his wavy hair was covering one half of his face and absorbing the sweat like a sponge. It took him a moment to register what was going on, and when he did, he recoiled from Micky’s touch and backed into the corner of the couch like a scared animal.

“Mike… you were seriously freaking out there.” Micky kept his voice hushed. “You gotta talk to me, man. Something’s really wrong.”

Micky didn’t expect Mike to answer, but he also didn’t expect Mike to cry. The tears spilled out of his eyes, mixing in with the sweat on his face so he couldn’t even tell what was what anymore. Micky waited for Mike to calm down.

“It’s… I… oh, you should just kick me out already,” Mike managed to choke out.

“Kick you out? You know I would never do that, man. C’mon.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Mike mumbled, so garbled that Micky couldn’t understand.

“What?”

“I don’t deserve your friendship. I’m lousy. That’s all I am. A lousy musician and a lousy person.”

“You got a mean right hook though,” Micky joked, trying to ease the tension. It only made Mike cry more. “Okay, okay, bad joke. You’re not lousy, Mike. Davy was just angry, he said things he didn’t mean. And so were you. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“H-he…” Mike started before hiccuping. “He did it on purpose. He wanted to humiliate me and it worked. It  _ worked _ , Micky, it worked. I made a damn fool of myself in front o’him, in front of you…” He reluctantly looked up, scanning Micky’s face and discerning his features through the darkness. “Why’re you even here?”

Micky laughed in surprise. “It’s my apartment.”

“No. Why are you  _ here _ . With  _ me _ .”

“...Because you’re my friend, Mike, and I care about you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. You should be mad at me. Lord knows I’d be mad at you if you pulled the stunt I did.”

“Mike… I don’t care. We’ll fix this, man, and everything’ll be fine. I’m not gonna stay mad at you forever just ‘cause you made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Not everyone’s mistake is punchin’ a kid in the face,” Mike muttered. “Some friend I am. Lettin’ my anger get the best of me. See, I told you, I’m dangerous when I lose my temper. I make decisions I can’t take back.”

“That’s what decisions  _ are _ , man. Irreversible. You gotta cut out this pity party, man, because I’m not going anywhere.” 

Mike was silent. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ve said all I needed to,” Mike grumbled.

“No. I mean your dream.”

Mike stiffened like he had just been paralyzed. “No,” was all he said after a few moments.

“But--”

“ _ No _ .” More firm this time. Micky took the hint.

“Fine, fine.” Micky let out a big yawn and realized he was actually so tired he was getting delirious. “I’m going to bed before I say somethin’ stupid.” 

_ Too late _ , Mike wanted to say, but Micky had already shut the door.

* * *

The next nine days blew by. Davy had a pounding headache and could only fall asleep with the aid of knockout pills, which temporarily put him in a daze and made him forget about the pain. But every morning he woke up and the first thing he felt was his throbbing temple. He watched in horror as it began to scab up and leave a nasty discolored bruise on the side of his head. He lamented to Peter how he couldn’t perform like this; that the crowd would take one look at him and boo him off the stage. Peter had to gently remind him that Davy talked Peter down from similar fears a few short days ago.

“Nobody’s going to be looking at your face, David.”

“That’s all I have goin’ for me!” Davy cried, buying his head in his hands.

“No it’s not! You’re a talented singer and dancer and tambourine player. You know it, too.”

“...You’re right,” Davy sniffed. “I oughta give that bastard a shiner, see how  _ he _ likes it.”

“Violence is never the answer, you know.”

“You  _ would _ say somethin’ like that,” Davy muttered, crossing his arms. “C’mon, I could totally take him. I know karate, you know.”

“I hope you’re kidding.”

“About knowing karate? I most certainly am  _ not _ .”

“No! You’re not going to get into another fight with him. You tried aggravating him before and look what happened.” Peter pointed to Davy’s bruise, and Davy turned his head and sunk deeper into the couch. “Mike clearly has anger issues and you clearly know how to touch a nerve.”

“...It was like I was back in New York,” Davy muttered. “Gettin’ beat up everyday by those meatheads. I thought I could finally prove a point, you know? That I can fight back too if someone wants to mess with me. But every time it just results in this.” Davy gestured around his bruise. “It took months for my ribs to stop hurtin’ every time I coughed. Now I’m back to square one.”

“Davy, the whole point is that there  _ is _ no point. You  _ have  _ nothing to prove. You moved all the way to LA by yourself, formed a band with a stranger and have gigs. You play the tambourine now! Aren’t you enjoying it?”

“...It  _ is  _ quite fun.”

“Exactly, see.  _ That’s _ what matters. That music moves you and brings you joy and brings other people joy. Your life is groovy, man, and you’re happy. It doesn’t matter what Mike or Micky or anyone else thinks about you.”

“I don’t need them to  _ like _ me. I just need ‘em to respect me. And Mike accusing me of cheating… it got to me.”

“Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong, was he?”

Silence.

“You have to believe in yourself, man. Believe that you can be successful without any help or tricks. Without having to intentionally get Michael angry for no good reason, dig?”

“I want this  _ so badly, _ Peter. You don’t understand. I can’t just be happy-go-lucky all the time like you. It doesn't come that easy to me.”

“It doesn’t come easy for me either! I was miserable my whole life. I fought for the approval of my parents until the day I moved out… I think. Maybe I still want it now. I dunno. But I  _ choose _ to be happy, because life isn’t worth living when I’m sad all the time. And I like living. Do you like living?”

Davy hesitated, but eventually nodded.

“See. We have four days until we get back on that stage and try and win. We don’t have to talk to Mike and Micky again if you don’t want to, but I really think you should apologize.”

“He won’t accept an apology.”

“You never know! Owning up to your mistake shows a lot of strength. Even if he doesn’t accept it, he might respect you for it.”

Davy mulled over his thoughts for a moment before snickering. “You should be a therapist, you know.”

Peter smiled. “I have many talents.” 

Ever since that conversation, Davy had been actively trying to be more positive. Of course, Peter helped tremendously by pulling Davy out of slumps when he began to fall back into his old thought patterns. It took him until Sunday, but he had finally worked up the courage (and practiced his lines) to apologize to Mike. 

As they walked through the doors of the club on Sunday evening, they were beaming. A small crowd had already started to form around the stage and they were excitedly babbling. A few girls even waved to Davy as they made their way backstage, seemingly oblivious to the bruise that was still present on his face. He smiled and waved back.

“See? You’re still a catch,” Peter said as he set his banjo and guitar down. 

Davy absently rubbed his temple. “I guess you’re right. I’ll go check us in.”

Peter was almost bubbling over with excitement. He really believed they were going to win, solely based on how the crowd reacted to them at the audition. There were bound to be a lot more people here tonight and he had never played in front of an audience this big before. He was nervous, sure, but what kind of person would he be if he didn’t practice what he preached? He was going to stay positive. He had to, no matter what. That’s what he repeated to himself over and over as he paced the stage and peeked through the curtains to look at the ever-growing audience.  _ Stay positive no matter what _ . Even when the other bands are giving him funny looks. Even when the same group of girls is giggling at him peeking through the curtain. Even if some guy that looks like his dad is standing ominously by the door--

_ Wait. Pause.  _ Some guy that  _ looks _ like his dad? If Peter’s dad had anything going for him, it was his very distinct physique. Unmistakable, even. So when Peter’s eyes landed on him, moved on and then quickly went back, he had to blink to make sure it was real. 

But it was unmistakable. Peter kept staring until the man’s eyes met his, and he threw the curtains over his face and bolted back to Davy.

“What’s wrong? Did a girl start flirtin’ with you?” Davy laughed until he saw how  _ pale _ Peter looked. 

“...Peter...?”

“I-it’s my dad.”

Davy raised an eyebrow. “Your dad? Doesn’t he live in… what’s it called… connecting--”

“Connecticut. It doesn’t matter. He’s here, Davy. He’s here.”

“That’s impossible, mate. How would he even know where to find you?”

“I dunno! But I  _ know _ what my dad looks like, man, and it’s him. Look.” Peter grabbed Davy’s arm and Davy winced at the sheer strength of his trembling grip. He parted the curtains ever so slightly and pointed to an older man with untamed white hair and a trimmed beard standing by the door.

“That’s your old man? He looks nothing like you.”

“I have my mother’s looks. Ah!” Peter grabbed Davy by the shoulders and pulled him back. “He was looking right at us!”

“Peter, I’m gonna need you to calm down, okay?” Davy was just as frazzled as Peter seemed to be. It seemed too absurd for Peter’s dad to materialize out of thin air the night of the contest. 

“He’s never even heard me play. He’s never come to any of my gigs before, even back home. How did he find me? Why would he show up  _ now? _ ”

Davy watched silently as Peter panicked. He didn’t know what to say. Peter was so good at knowing what advice to give when Davy was being difficult. He had never seen Peter like this, though. 

“Are you going to be able to play?” Davy blurted. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to know.

Peter didn’t answer for an entire minute. He just sat in silence, his eyes darting everywhere as he weighed his options. They were so close, he couldn’t give up now, right? Even if it meant facing his father. It would break Davy’s heart if he was the reason they had to quit. He had to do this for Davy.

“...I can play,” he sighed. “I can play. I’ll do it.”

“Okay,” Davy said, patting Peter on the back. He had never seen Peter tremble before. “It’s gonna be alright, yeah? You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Peter replied. Only he didn’t know how much he meant it.

* * *

The morning after the fight, Micky technically had to work. But it was hard to operate on four hours of sleep. He was sent home almost as soon as he arrived; his boss would rather Micky get some rest than screw up all the cars. His coworkers were pleased to hear the audition went well, though, so at least Micky was sent back home in an okay mood. He instantly fell asleep upon returning and didn’t get out of bed until it was almost 3 p.m.

Mike didn’t mind. He wanted more time to think. It turns out that he was able to get a lot of thinking done over the course of the week, because Micky had called out from Al’s for the whole week so they could rehearse for the contest. And they did just that -- they spent every day practicing like it was their 9-5 job. Micky was pretending to forget everything that happened that night. There were moments where he almost opened his big mouth, but he was able to transfer his focus onto the contest. Still, something felt off. Something felt  _ wrong _ . 

Mike wanted to perfect his solo on  _ Papa Gene’s Blues _ , but as the day of the contest approached, he found himself more and more nervous at the prospect of having to play  _ and _ sing. He insisted that Micky finish writing the song he sang for Mike in the park the other week, but no matter how hard Micky tried, he couldn’t settle on good lyrics for a second verse or even a chorus. It was clear that he was out of his element; even more so than Mike, who was the person who caused all of this stress in the first place. 

Mike was good at forgetting things ever happened. He was content with moving on. But Micky wasn’t. It wasn’t in his make-up. He wanted all problems to be solved neatly and tied up with a bow. At the beginning of the week, he was confident he could try and mediate the situation by sitting everyone down together and talking through their issues. He brought up the idea to Mike but it was immediately shot down. Micky could understand why -- if he just physically assaulted someone, he probably wouldn’t want to speak face-to-face with them, either. 

But they were going to have to see each other at the contest on Sunday, so Micky felt like there was no choice but to try and find a solution. Mike wasn’t interested because he didn’t want Micky to keep cleaning up his messes. He needed to own up to this one. It was clearly eating away at Micky and it was messing with their chemistry. There was still a flame, but it was fading fast under these harsh winds.

On Sunday morning, Mike was sitting up straight on the couch, his legs crossed and his hands folded on his lap. He cleared his throat when Micky finally emerged from his room.

“Mike…?” Micky rubbed his eyes. “Everythin’ okay man?”

“I wanna talk,” Mike said. The directness of that proposal took Micky aback for a moment.

“Sure,” he said finally, slowly taking a seat next to Mike. “What’s up?”

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been thinkin’.” He twiddled his thumbs. “I’ve, uh… I’ve noticed how you’ve really been out of it this week.” Mike paused, hoping Micky would respond and affirm his observations. Micky yawned. “I mean, I’m just nervous about tonight.”

“Yeah.” Mike looked down. “...I don’t think we should go.”

Micky blinked. “What?”

“I think we should forfeit.”

Micky blinked again. “Am I hearing you straight? You want to  _ quit? _ ”

Mike winced at that word. Micky made it sound so  _ bad _ . “Yeah.”

Micky was flabbergasted. “N-no, Mike, we’re--we’re not forfeiting. That’s--why would you even  _ wanna _ do that?” 

“I can’t stand watchin’ you be torn up over somethin’ I did. I can feel it, man, you’re not the same,” Mike said, his voice wavering. “Every time somethin’ in my life has gone wrong, it’s only affected me. I ran away from home, that was my problem. I wasn’t gettin’ gigs, tough luck, I’m the only one sufferin’. Now you’re in the mix, and I’m hurtin’ you. Not to mention I  _ actually _ hurt Davy. I can’t let my actions affect other people like this. It’s gotta stop.”

“So you think quitting is the solution?”

Mike hesitated. “I guess I don’t really know what else to do. Figured if we just put this contest nonsense behind us, we can move on and try somethin’ new.”

“Mike, we could  _ win _ ,” Micky laughed in exasperation. “We could seriously, actually  _ win _ . And you want to quit ‘cause you, what, you’re too embarrassed to apologize to Davy? Or you’re afraid we  _ might _ lose?”

Mike was silent for a moment, letting Micky calm down before he responded. “I guess I only know how to destroy things,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t ever make positive changes in my life. Only negative ones. I either run away from my shit or let it consume me.”

“So make a change! Own up to it.” Micky took a breath. “Look, I know we have different ways of dealing with things. I get too anxious and want to solve a problem right away. You can deal with taking the punches. I try too hard to get you to talk when you don’t want to, so I tried bottling things up this week. I guess you noticed.”

Mike scoffed. “Yeah.”

“...But you started this conversation with me.  _ You  _ came to  _ me  _ with something. And you were willing to make a crazy -- totally,  _ totally _ crazy -- proposition… just to make me happy. That says a lot more than some lame heart-to-heart ever could.”

“It also says we shouldn’t try and act like each other.”

Micky laughed. “Yeah, man. But we tried, and I think that’s all that matters, right?”

Mike mulled in silence. “...So you don’t wanna forfeit.”

“I never wanted to!”

“Okay.” A pause. “I’ll apologize to Davy.”

“No, you said you didn’t want to--”

“--No. I said I don’t want  _ you _ to do it. But  _ I _ want to. I didn’t like your idea at first ‘cause I didn’t want you to be the one apologizin’ on my behalf. I can do this.”

Micky smiled and wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulders. “We owe it to ourselves to go up there and win fair and square, right? Show everyone just how good we are together.”

“You’re right. Was silly of me to even propose quittin’.”

“No it wasn’t. I mean, well, it  _ was _ , but it’s okay. You’re learning. We’re both learning. But we’re learning together, which is a lot better than learning alone.”

Mike cracked a smile. “Yeah. I suppose it is.”

So Mike and Micky practiced their set one more time before playing tetris with pieces of a drum kit in the backseat of a cab. When they finally arrived at the club, the first thing they did was look for Peter and Davy. Mike wanted to get this apology over with.

“Do you see them?”

“They’re probably backstage-- oh, excuse me, sir,” Micky said, eyeing a tall man standing right next to the door. “Jeez, I’m like you. Bumping into strangers with my instrument.”

“Maybe he’ll join our band then,” Mike joked, bolting for backstage before Micky could make a comment about Mike making a joke. Micky followed, realizing how late they actually were as opposed to the auditions. It was 5:30 p.m. and the place was already  _ packed _ . 

“Mike! Where’d you… Mike? What are you looking at?” Mike was staring straight ahead, and it wasn’t until Micky pulled up next to him did he see who he was staring at.

“He looks like he’s panicking,” Mike whispered. “Do you think he’s alright?”

They were, of course, looking right at Peter, who was being consoled by Davy. Even from across the room, he looked ghostly white.

“Should we ask what’s wrong?” Micky pondered.

“No,” Mike countered immediately. “We… we should leave ‘em alone.”

Peter and Davy didn’t even see Mike and Micky on the other side of the stage. Davy reached for Peter’s banjo case, unlocking all the latches and carefully handing the instrument to him. 

“Let’s give it a go, alright? Just a practice run.” If there was anything that could cheer Peter up, it was playing music. Which is why Davy was horrified when Peter sighed heavily like it was a menial task that needed to get done. Technically, everything was fine. He played all the right notes and had the right tempo. But there was no spark. There was no flame. It had been blown out. And that’s how Davy knew this was serious.

“...oh, man,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes once Peter stopped playing. His thoughts were traveling at the speed of light.  _ Am I really about to do this? _

Davy stood up slowly. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He couldn’t tell Peter what he was doing because he knew he would try and fight him on it, and Davy wasn’t in the mood for any more of that.

Mike and Micky watched a solemn Davy walk slowly back to the main room. He didn’t have the usual pep that he normally exuded. The charm was missing and it made Mike’s stomach turn. As far as he knew, he did that.  _ His actions _ broke another person. He turned his head to Peter, who wore a similar look of defeat on his face. Even when Mike was yelling at him, he had never seen him look so worn down.

He had to do something about it.

Slowly, Mike put his guitar down next to Micky, who looked comically undersized trying to keep his drum kit from rolling away. 

“Mike, where are you going… gah!” Micky called out as he tried to keep all the pieces of his kit together. Mike just kept walking.

Peter glanced up when he saw Mike coming, but didn’t have the strength to react. He could barely keep a steady breathing pattern. Mike leaned against the wall next to him, folding his arms and not saying anything for a little. He was giving Peter a chance to tell him to piss off. But the longer Mike stood there, the more he realized that Peter’s problem might not be with him. He was breathing so rapidly that Mike thought the oxygen in the room would run out soon.

Mike finally mustered up the courage to ask something, but he was cut off unexpectedly.

“Are you close with your father, Michael?”

Mike blinked in surprise. “Uh--n-no. No, not--not really,” he stammered. “No, I’m not.”

“So you understand, then.”

Mike  _ didn’t _ understand, not for a moment, until he realized what Peter was implying. The shortness of breath, the wringing of the hands, the paleness of his face… it wasn’t Mike.

“Your dad… he’s here?”

Peter nodded. “I haven’t seen him in eight months, you know. Ever since I left home to become… well, whatever I am. I don’t know.”

Mike was confused. “...You’re a musician, ain’t ya?”

“I’d like to think I am. But this is what happens when my father’s around. Everything gets confusing.”

“I’m… sorry, Pete. I really am.” Really, though, Mike was just trying to understand why Peter was telling him all of this.

“I know it’s strange for me to be telling this to the guy who punched my best friend in the face.”  _ Oh, great. Peter’s a mind-reader, too _ . “But I know you’re not a bad person, Mike.”

“How can you say that after everythin’ I’ve done to you?”

Peter shrugged. “Well, you came over here to ask me if I was okay, didn’t you?”

Mike opened and closed his mouth a few times before responding. “Yeah. I did. But how--”

“--And I can tell. You lash out because you’re scared and unsure. Davy does it, too.”

“He sure knows how to get under a guy’s skin,” Mike muttered. “But I bet Davy doesn’t punch people when he gets mad.”

Peter had to chuckle. “No, but he does stupid things. Like talking to Emily just to get to you.” Peter paused for a moment, wondering if he should reveal this next bit of information. But he wanted Mike to trust him. “You were kind of right, you know.”

“About what?”

“About Davy cheating. Well, it wasn’t cheating, really. He was flirting with Emily so she’d be more sympathetic to us, since you can’t really cheat with an audience vote. He figured if she liked us, she could help us get a gig here even if we lost.”

Mike scoffed. “That’s kinda clever, honestly.”

“You think so?” Peter laughed. “I thought it was unnecessary. But it made David feel more comfortable.”

A prolonged silence fell over the two. Peter had resumed his nervous ticks, and Mike was awkwardly waiting around for Davy to come back while Micky chatted with some of the other bands. When Davy finally appeared, he had an agonized look on his face. Like he just did something wrong.

“Peter, I’m sorry, I--” He stopped dead in his tracks when he locked eyes with Mike. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his jaw was frozen shut, save for the slight trembling. Peter’s eyes were nervously darting between the two.

“Davy, look, I-I’m real sorry about--”

“--Peter, we’re goin’ home,” Davy blurted, cutting Mike off.

Peter cocked his head. “What? But the contest starts in an hour. Did you forget something?” 

Davy rolled his eyes. “ _ No _ , Pete, that’s the thing. We’re not doin’ this.”

“I don’t understand.”

Davy sighed. “I just talked to Emily. I withdrew us from the contest.”

Both Mike and Peter’s eyes went wide.

“You’re not  _ you _ right now, Peter,” Davy continued, “and I don’t think you want to go out there. Am I right?”

Peter’s silence was deafening.

“I can’t make you do this, not with your dad out there. Not with you panicking. I mean, you couldn’t even look him in the eye from across the room!”

“But Davy, if we don’t do this, we can’t win.”

Davy groaned. “Don’t you think I  _ know _ that?”

“But it’s so important to you! I promise, I-I’m okay, I can go out there. I’ll push through it, it’s fine.”

“Peter.” Davy was now standing right in front of him, clutching his friend’s shoulders with shaking hands. “I don’t _want_ you doin’ this for me, alright? There is no me or you. It’s  _ us _ . And if one of  _ us _ isn’t feelin’ well about something,  _ we _ aren’t going to do it.” 

“But this is so important to you,” Peter repeated. “I--we have to--”

“You’re allowed to be selfish sometimes, you know,” Davy said, letting out an exasperated laugh. “We’ve still got the Gaslight, right? This isn’t the end of the world. I care way more about you than some silly contest.”

Peter didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what else he  _ could _ say. Davy was right -- he  _ didn’t _ want to go out there. He  _ couldn’t _ , not with his dad here for reasons unknown. Peter knew he wasn’t here to be supportive, because pigs flying was a more likely reality. His dad was a symbol for being the bearer of bad news. He was probably just here to scold Peter and guilt him into coming back home.  _ Oh, your poor mother has been worried sick, Peter! How dare you do something like that to her? I had to take her to the hospital because she collapsed reading your note. You did this to her, Peter, you’ve always done this to her _ . Peter was beyond that now. That was his old life. This was his new one, with new friends. New family. Family that cared about him enough to get over their own shortcomings or sacrifice their own wants because they cared about him. 

Davy was waiting for Peter to respond, so he didn't expect Mike to break the silence.

“Hey, uh, you-you can come play with us, me and Micky, if-if you want,” Mike said awkwardly, gesturing toward Davy. “I-I mean, y’don’t know our music or anythin’, but you can play the tambourine in the back or somethin’, I dunno. Peter can hang out backstage and we could sneak him out the back when we leave! Micky’d be fine with it, probably--”

“--No, uh, that’s alright,” Davy cut in cautiously, unsure if disagreeing with Mike would result in retaliation. “My head still hurts.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah,” Mike said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.  _ What a stupid idea _ . “S-sorry about that, by the way. I, uh, I got carried away. Bad temper.”

Davy shrugged. “I prob’ly shouldn’t have tried to provoke you.”

After a few beats of silence, Mike wordlessly stuck his hand out to Davy, who eventually took it and gave it a gentle shake. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but it was something.

“Guess we should be headin’ out then,” Davy said to Peter, scoffing his boot against the worn-down wood.

Peter nodded dismally. “Yeah.”

“I guess I should--I’ll uh--I’ll see y’all around,” Mike fumbled. He managed a small smile before putting his head down and walking back to Micky.

“What happened?” Micky asked, unable to read Mike’s expression. “You were over there for ages.”

“They’re droppin’ out.”

Micky gasped. “What? Why? Not because--”

“--No, not ‘cause of me. Peter’s dad is here, and apparently it’s complicated or somethin’.” Mike paused. “Peter wanted to play, or he insisted he wanted to, but Davy was the one who made the call. I woulda thought it’d be the other way around.”

“What, you thought Davy would force Peter to play?”

Mike shrugged. “Maybe. I dunno. I guess I’m a bad judge of character.”

“Yeah, you thought Peter was fake-nice and you didn’t believe I actually wanted to be your friend,” Micky snickered. “I saw the world’s most uncomfortable handshake, too.”

Mike blushed. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“Hey, if Peter doesn’t wanna play in front of his dad, why don’t we ask Davy to join us? Just for tonight, maybe he’d be okay with it so he could still compete!”

Mike let out a loud laugh. “Believe it or not, I actually said the same thing.”

“You  _ did _ ? I don’t believe you.”

“Swear t’god! He said no.”

“Oh. That’s okay, I guess.” Micky glanced over at the other two, who were making sure they had everything before they left. “I… I’m real proud of you, Mike.”

“Proud?” Mike cocked his head.

“Yeah man! You went over there and talked to Peter when you didn’t have to.  _ And  _ you tried to do something groovy for Davy.”

“It was a dumb idea,” Mike mumbled. 

“Maybe,” Micky shrugged, “but at least you tried, right?”

Mike nodded. Yeah. He  _ did _ try, even if he knew it was never going to happen. He was wrong about both Peter and Davy. Maybe Davy would see he was wrong about Mike, too.

* * *

Peter and Davy were going to leave, but Peter’s dad was still stationed by the door. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere until all the bands performed. Davy kept thinking about Mike’s proposal; not so much the playing with them part, but the  _ we can sneak Peter out the back _ part. He didn’t realize there  _ was _ a back entrance. Peter insisted there was  _ always  _ a back entrance. 

But as soon as they were ready to sneak away, John came bursting backstage and went straight for the duo.

“Hey! Guys. Peter and Davy, right?”

Davy nodded. “That’s right.”

“Real bummed to hear about you guys dropping out.” He leaned in. “Between you and me, I think you had the best shot at this. Besides that other uncreative pair whose band name is just their first names. Anyway. You’re welcome to hang around backstage and listen.” He started to walk away, but abruptly turned back around to Davy. “You’re Davy? The British kid Emily talks about all the time?”

Davy felt his cheeks get hot. “She talks about me?”

“Ugh,  _ all the damn time _ . It’s annoying, lemme tell ya.”

“Oh. I-I’m sorry.”

John eyed him up and down before smirking. “This British invasion is no joke,” he mumbled before walking over to the bands. After explaining that there were only six bands remaining, he wished everyone luck and revealed the order. Mike and Micky were slated to go second-to-last. 

“Alright alright al _ right! _ ” came John’s bubbly voice to a chorus of cheers as he took the stage. “We've got a helluva show tonight. The best six bands from our auditions last week have returned to put on another show-stopping performance! Remember, cast your vote at the end and you’ll be seeing the winner here every week. Now let’s get this ball rolling!”

It was strange for Peter and Davy to watch the groups from the sidelines. Peter decided he wanted to stay and watch, claiming it was because of his dad, but really, it was for that other uncreative pair. Davy knew it, too.

Mike and Micky did great. Better than last week, even. Maybe nobody else felt it, because the crowd was eating it up, but Peter and Davy could sense something was off. Micky was hitting notes and Mike was grooving, but last week, there was laughter. There was movement. This week, there was… music. But there wasn’t  _ soul _ . Their suspicions were all but confirmed when Mike and Micky walked backstage after finishing their set. They were smiling, sure, and patting each other on the back. But they didn’t look  _ thrilled _ . Whatever Peter and Davy were picking up, Mike and Micky were the ones putting it down. It seemed to be something only the four of them noticed.

So it didn’t come as a total shock when Mike and Micky finished as runners-up to the Popsicles. Micky was still holding out hope they would win, but even he knew the Popsicles just out-performed them. After extending their sincere congratulations and giving one last wave to the crowd, they sauntered backstage and began the tedious process of packing up.

“You guys did great,” one group said, patting Mike on the back.

“You guys totally should have won,” another insisted. “What kind of stupid name is the Popsicles anyway?” That one got a laugh out of Micky. Davy wanted to say something, but he didn’t want to sound disingenuous. He knew deep down that they weren’t as upset as the others thought they were.

“Davy. Davy. David!” Peter shook his friend from his thoughts. “He’s gone.”

“What?”

“He’s gone. My father. He--he’s not by the door anymore.”

“Thank god! Let’s get out of here before he shows back up again.”

Mike and Micky watched as Peter and Davy ran offstage and out the front door just as Peter’s dad poked his head backstage. 

“Have you boys seen a young man with blond hair…  _ long _ blond hair?” he asked in a gruff, slightly-accented voice. He sounded like he had to get past his gag reflex to say those words.

Micky and Mike exchanged a look before the former shook his head. “No, sir. Sorry.”

“Hmph,” he grunted, sweeping his eyes around the room before turning around and stomping off.

“I can see why Peter doesn’t like that guy,” Micky grumbled, sticking his drumsticks in his pocket.

“Reminds me of someone I know,” Mike muttered to himself. 

“You gonna be alright?” Micky asked as they started their walk to the exit. “I know how badly you wanted this.”

“We just didn’t have it tonight,” Mike sighed. “I thought we played fine, but--”

“--Something was missing,” they said in perfect unison. 

“Well, y’know what? I’m still happy,” Micky declared, fishing some dimes out of his pocket to call a cab. “We came in second place! And now we know what our competition looks like. This won’t be the only club that needs musicians. We’ll have plenty of other chances.”

“As soon as we can write s’more songs,” Mike said quietly.

“I sure hope Davy and Peter will be alright,” Micky said as he hung up. “I feel horrible.”

“We didn’t do anythin’ though.”

“I know, but… they wanted this just as much as we did. It’s a drag.”

Mike didn’t have anything else to say as the two of them piled into the cab. It  _ was _ a drag, for whatever reason. Mike was way more torn up about Peter and Davy than he wanted to admit, and he had a feeling that Micky was, too. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but somehow it still felt like it was. He had no idea when his wellbeing started to become intertwined with so many people, but here he was, sitting in the back of a cab with his best and, right now, _only_ friend, worrying about two other people he didn’t even remotely consider to be his friends until this very moment, because only people who were friends would make Mike feel so torn up inside. 

It was strange, but a good kind of strange. The kind of strange where things are changing really fast and you can’t decide what you’re feeling until very suddenly, very instantaneously, you feel like everything is going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot believe it! only one more chapter to go! it will probably be a long one, so i'm giving myself lots of time to finish it and perfect it. honestly if you're even reading this note right now you're the best! thank u for sticking with this story and seeing it through to the end.


	17. Reveal who you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is inspired by one of my favorite avatar the last airbender episodes (an episode which i am in the minority for enjoying but here we are)

The October air felt marginally different than the September air, which felt marginally different than the August air. The end of summer in southern California was more like a slow fade than it was a quick transition; there were no color-changing leaves or crisp breezes that cooled you down. Maybe the daytime temperature wouldn’t reach 80, but that was the extent of LA’s autumn.

Micky loved October. Halloween was  _ obviously _ his favorite holiday, and even Mike tolerated how Micky broke out his “spooky decorations” the moment the calendar flipped. Though the casual LA resident wouldn’t feel much of a difference in the weather, Micky’s system was tuned into picking out the subtle differences. He wouldn’t even consider going to the beach in October; it just didn’t have the same feeling it did in August. 

This year, however, it wasn’t just the weather. It was this weird new friend of his named Mike, who had sort of become a different person after the contest. With Mike, it wasn’t a quick transition either. It had been a long, slow buildup from not saying more than two words at a time to having full-on musical conversations (even if Micky was taking up 80% of the conversation, that was as close to normal as it would get). They would go on walks together, and even if they were silent walks, they learned new things about each other every time. They would go out to eat. Mike would get seconds without asking permission. His metaphorical leaves were changing. 

Micky, subsequently, had downgraded himself to part-time at Al’s to focus on his new musical endeavors with Mike, which Al didn’t mind because he finally hired another full-time employee. Micky spent three half-days a week at the store, two half-days a week at the mechanic’s, and the rest of the time at Chuck’s playing gigs. It was the only thing they had right now, but it was a lot better than nothing. It was real musical experience in front of a real audience, albeit a much thinner one than a club. But Chuck, along with Al and the folks who needed their cars fixed every weekend, helped pay the bills. 

Mike spent all day writing, composing, looking for new gigs and daydreaming of producing. He had secretly been saving part of his cut of Chuck’s commission to rent out a recording studio. He had to prevent himself from getting too lost in his daydream, though, because he didn’t believe it could ever happen. It was the kind of thing that only existed in his head.

That is, until Micky came home early from work one Friday afternoon. The weather was so perfect that Al sent Micky home an hour early so he could enjoy the day before the sun set. He already worked abbreviated hours, so he found himself walking back home at 4 p.m. instead of 5. Micky was ecstatic. Not only did this mean him and Mike could go out to eat, it also meant he could finally give him his gift. He had been bouncing off the walls all day.  _ Hmm. Maybe that’s why Al sent me home…  _

“Mike!” Micky yelled, pounding on the door. “Hey, Mike?”

Mike stopped strumming and blinked. Was that Micky?

“Mike! Are you in there?”

Mike stared at the door, where Micky was calling him from the other side. He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Micky’s heart skipped a beat. “Okay! Close your eyes!”

Mike rolled his eyes before shutting them. “Okay,” he called out, trying to suppress his amused smile. 

“Okay! I’m coming in! Those eyes better be closed!”

Mike chucked as Micky struggled to open the apartment door, but he finally turned the key and kicked the door open. Mike concentrated hard on the sound of Micky’s breathing, which was heavy and frantic but also excited. His footsteps sounded clunky, like he was holding something heavy. 

“Okay, I’m gonna put the g--I’m gonna put it next to you, okay? Don’t look!”

“I’m not looking!” Mike laughed, though underneath his eyelids, his eyes were pointed to the empty space next to him. Mike felt a small weight on the cushion to his right and wondered what on earth Micky had brought back from work this time.

“Okay… open your eyes! Open ‘em!”

Mike sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. He was fully, completely, totally unprepared for what he was seeing in front of him. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. He couldn’t believe it.

“Okay, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Gee Mick, how are you able to afford that?’ Well, I’ve been saving a long time for a car, you know that, but I didn’t realize how  _ much _ I had in the reserve, so the other day I went to look and I almost cried! Seriously, there were tears. And so I was like, ‘Well Micky, you good ‘ol boy, you’ve finally done it. You can get a car!’ But then I thought about it. Did I really even  _ need _ one? It would be a drag to spend so much dough on something I’d barely use. And I work at the mechanic, so it’s not like I  _ never  _ touch cars. And so I went to work today and my eyes kept going to the Gretsch, and then I realized.  _ That _ was worth it! So I asked Al if I could buy it, and he was reluctant to sell it to his own employee, but I told him it was for you, and he was real groovy about it after that. So, here we are.”

Normally, Mike would be speechless. But right now, a thousand thoughts were swirling through his head and he wanted to vocalize all of them.  _ You didn’t have to do this. Return it, I don’t deserve it. You shouldn’t spend your money on me like that.  _ But Mike wasn’t too good with words. Not when he was forced to think of them on the spot, anyway. He couldn't launch into a detailed response about how happy he was without sounding insincere. But his mind wanted him to do something; something to make Micky know just how much this meant to him. 

Slowly, Mike got up off the couch and wrapped his arms around Micky in an awkward but endearing hug. It both caught Micky off-guard and made him laugh in delight. He wasn’t surprised that Mike was a good hugger, though he knew Mike would never agree with that assessment. It helped that he was slightly taller, so they fit together better. Mike had a strong grip, which was both surprising for someone so frail but expected given his musical talents. Mike was shaking, kind of, as he pushed down his feeling of awkwardness while trying not to giggle at Micky’s curls brushing against his face. It lasted for 15 seconds, maybe more, before a weird feeling surged through Mike that he was overstepping his boundaries. He pulled himself away, stepping back and clearing his throat. He knew Micky was waiting for him to say something.

“Mick, I… you shouldn’t have. Really.”

“Psh, c’mon, Mike! Don’t be like that!”

“No! I mean… I dunno. I don’t deserve a gift like this. Not after you’ve already given me so much. Not after everythin’ I’ve done.”

“Look, man. We’re… we’re brothers, right? That’s what we are. And brothers know that even when one of ‘em makes a mistake, the other is always going to forgive them, because at the end of the day, forgiveness is where it’s at.  _ Love  _ is where it’s at. And you losing your temper is no reason for you to not receive love.”  
  
Of course, it was much more complicated than a single punch in the face, but Mike was going to go with it for now. Besides, Mike was complicated, but not stupid. No matter how odd it felt to get a gift like this, he sure as hell wasn’t about to refuse a  _ 12-string Gretsch _ . 

“How much… how much did this cos--”

“--Don’t ask. Seriously. You don’t wanna know,” Micky laughed, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m a bit of an impulse buyer.”

Mike glanced around the apartment filled with thrifted trinkets and laughed to himself. 

“Ah! I can’t take it anymore, man!” Micky squealed. “Can you just hold it already?!”

“Is it in tune?” Mike asked, still standing at a distance.

“Yeah, I made sure it was perfect.” Micky walked over to Mike and started pushing him from the back. “Come.  _ On _ ,” Micky grunted. “Play it!”

“Alright, alright!” Mike stumbled forward, staring at the Gretsch for a few more seconds. He almost couldn’t believe it was right here, leaning against Micky’s leather couch in his tiny little living room. He sat back down, carefully wrapping his fingers around the neck and pulling the instrument onto his lap. It was a perfectly snug fit.

“What’re you gonna name it?” Micky asked eagerly, flopping down on the couch.

“What?”

“C’mon, you don’t  _ name _ your instruments?”

“D’you name your drums?” Mike shot back.

“Psh! Of course not. That’s dumb. But a  _ guitar… _ a guitar is a single, beautiful item. Like Shoeless Joe Jackson’s baseball bat!  _ He _ gave her a name.”

“I ain’t Shoeless Joe.”

“Nah, you’re shoeless Mike,” Micky grinned, pointing to Mike’s socked feet and finding his joke way funnier than it actually was. “So tell me, shoeless. What’s her name?”

Despite Mike’s insistence that naming an inanimate object was stupid, he actually didn’t have to think very long for something to come to him. Maybe it meant he really deserved this. Or maybe it meant that Micky’s silliness was rubbing off on him. He was alright with both options.

“Blondie,” Mike said after a few moments of silence. “I think I’ll name her Blondie.”

“Groovy!” Micky smiled, instantly forgetting what Mike had chosen as the name. Mike began to position his hands to play a G chord when Micky gasped. “Wait! Now that we’ve got that all straight, I propose a celebratory dinner.”

Mike smirked. “What’re we celebratin’?” 

“Us!” Micky leapt off the couch. “Plus, I wanna see if Chuck will feed us for free. I don’t have any dough left after I bought that guitar.”

Mike smiled as Micky ran into his room to change out of his work clothes. He should have figured Micky didn’t  _ actually  _ want to hear him play it right now. He wasn’t one to celebrate, but if there was anything worth going out for, he supposed it was this friendship.

* * *

Peter was enjoying the weather greatly. When Davy went to sleep, he would open up the windows to let the night air circulate. Davy would close them in the middle of the night when he woke up shivering, and Peter would open them back up when he awoke. He missed New England autumns, but he wasn’t going to complain about an extended summer either. Peter claimed the fresh air “cleansed his palette”, which Davy didn’t even understand, but he tolerated, because Peter was in a rough spot. A  _ real _ rough spot. Some days, he wouldn’t even leave the apartment. He’d just settle for opening the windows.

Davy had been carrying their set at the Gaslight solo ever since the night of the contest. It wasn’t that Peter didn’t  _ want _ to go out, but he was treating his dad like a fugitive on the loose -- any time he left the house he was liable to be seen. Davy was sure his dad had skipped town by now, but it had only been two weeks. Peter wasn’t ready to take the risk. 

Peter spent a lot of his time obsessing over the fact that Davy could tell he was perturbed. Picking up on the subtleties of emotion was something Peter was quite adept at, but he never really considered that others could be on the same wavelength. He had gotten good at hiding his emotions as a child and even better at reading them in other people. Davy must have picked up on something when Peter practiced his banjo before the show, and now Peter was constantly picking at the strings when Davy went out and wondering what Davy heard that he couldn’t.  _ Still _ couldn’t. It was driving him crazy, but he already felt terrible about withdrawing from the contest  _ and _ staying home all the time. He couldn’t bring up a  _ third _ issue. 

Davy told Peter he didn’t mind. If anyone was going to understand daddy issues, it was him. But that didn’t mean Davy wasn’t getting  _ annoyed _ . Peter wasn’t his normal smiley self. But he knew Peter would get even  _ more  _ upset if he knew how upset Davy was. But Davy wasn’t upset  _ with _ Peter, per se. He was upset that Peter was upset. It made his head spin. 

Something about today was different, though. When Davy woke up at sunrise, he could already tell it was going to be a gorgeous day and he refused to let anything drag him down. He threw on a track suit at the crack of dawn and strolled down to the beach. He kicked off his tennis shoes next to a distinct-looking rock and dug his feet into the sand. It was warm and comforting. Davy absently wondered why they never went to the beach all that much, given its proximity. Opting to breathe in smog instead of sea salt seemed like a weird compromise they didn’t have to make. Davy could just as easily have taken more trips to the shore himself, but he was saddled by an insecurity he didn’t want to vocalize. It wasn’t like Britain was famous for its beaches. Neither was Connecticut, but families spending summers down in Mystic or New London was much more common than a place like Brighton. Peter would talk about how his family took summer trips down to the shore and over to Rhode Island. His relatives had summer cottages on Cape Cod. He seemed at peace with the beach scene, and with that surfer-blond hair and sunshine smile, it wasn’t a crazy conclusion to draw. Davy wasn’t quite the same.

_ Maybe this is why I don’t come here _ , he thought, wiggling his toes.  _ This stuff gets everywhere. _

He sucked in a breath and kicked off, his steps heavier than usual as he jogged through sand. He found himself trending toward the water line for more stable running ground, and soon water was kicking up and soaking the bottoms of his pants. He didn’t mind. He was gawking up at the expansive row of houses that lined the tops of the dunes.  _ I wonder how much those cost _ . Probably an unfathomable amount.

He passed all kinds of people. Older couples holding hands as they went for a morning stroll. Fitness-savvy mothers pushing strollers through the sand --  _ they can really do that?  _ Muscle-clad men lifting weight and posing as the mothers jogged by, though they tried to keep it casual. Davy couldn’t help but snicker. Now  _ this  _ was California.

He was out for a lot longer than he realized, but once the sun shone in his eyes with a brightness he wasn’t accustomed to, he decided it was time to turn around and go back. His feet were soaking wet and caked with sand. He had to walk back to the apartment barefoot.

“Where were you?” Peter asked, voice trembling slightly, when Davy padded inside. The look of concern on his face was palpable. “You’re all wet.”

“I went to the beach,” Davy stated matter-of-factly as he grabbed a paper towel to wipe the bottoms of his feet. “And now I’m getting sand everywhere.”

“I woke up and you weren’t here,” Peter frowned. “I got nervous.”

Davy sighed. Sometimes Peter would act like a Buddhist monk. Other times, he acted like a five-year-old.

“Sorry mate,” he answered. “I just went on a run, is all.”

“You should leave a note next time or something,” Peter said, wringing his hands. “I thought you just left.”

“Pete… c’mon, man. I wouldn’t do that. You know that.” Davy unzipped his jacket and threw it over a chair, rubbing a hand over his bare chest. “Look, man. I know it’s rough for you right now, but it’s nice out. Maybe we should go to the park and--”

“No,” Peter immediately shook his head. “He might be out there looking for me.”

Davy sighed heavily and rubbed his face, which was still drenched in sweat. “I’m gonna shower, alright?”

Peter watched in a horror of sorts as Davy trudged into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. While Davy was showering, Peter cursed himself for sounding so helpless. He didn’t mean to, but sometimes words just fell out of his mouth before he had the time to think about them. He  _ wanted _ to leave the apartment, but the first thing that came to his mind was fear, so that’s all he could express. He could tell Davy was getting tired of it. He allowed himself to be selfish, and now his friend was getting annoyed.

When Davy finished freshening up, Peter was waiting for him on the couch, guitar in hand.

Davy raised an eyebrow. Peter hadn’t picked up his guitar in front of him in a long while. “Pete?”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t sit here moping around. Let’s go outside.”

Davy perked up. “You mean it?”

Peter nodded. “Maybe connecting with nature will help me feel better.”

Davy sniffed a laugh and tousled his friend’s hair. “Now  _ that’s _ the Peter I know.” 

So the two went to the park, sat under that familiar tree and softly played music for hours. They went to a coffee shop to grab some snacks, and while Peter played the guitar, Davy shoved bits of muffin into his mouth and smiled. It felt normal again. 

At some point, Davy got a little too comfortable leaning against the tree trunk and drifted off to sleep. Peter smirked, gently putting his guitar down. It would be a waste to play if Davy couldn’t enjoy it too. Soon enough, the two of them had fully fallen asleep, jolting awake only at the sounds of the elementary school kids screaming around them. 

“What time’s it?” Davy asked groggily, rubbing his eyes.

Peter looked at his watchless wrist. “About 4.”

“Peter, you’re not even wearin’ a watch.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s time to get a watch, then.”

“Ha ha,” Davy yawned, stretching his arms high into the air. “Sun’s startin’ to set. It’s probably dinner time.”

“So let’s get something to eat!”

Neither of them asked the other where they should go, but it was like they both felt a pull in the same direction. They wordlessly wandered over to Chuck’s, where the place looked abandoned, and they confirmed it must be sometime around 4 p.m. when nobody was out to eat. 

Well, almost nobody.

* * *

In some way, Mike and Micky should have expected those two to show up. It seemed all too perfect that they were the only ones in the restaurant on a picturesque day like this. Micky, who had already devoured his burger, was munching on fries when he saw them walk in. He poked Mike, whose back was facing the door, and he didn’t even need to hear Micky say anything to know what was going on. Sometime’s Micky’s facial expressions said more than his words.

Mike didn’t need to turn around, either. He knew they were frozen, staring at them from a distance like they were wild animals. It wasn’t a nervous stare, though -- Mike could feel it. It was more hesitant. Waiting for the pin to drop.

He locked eyes with Micky. They were thinking the same thing.

Micky waved shyly. Davy took the first steps, and Micky quickly got up from his seat and slid next to Mike, putting fries in his mouth in the process. Peter and Davy nimbly sat across from them, shuffling into the booth with little reservation. Davy nervously eyed Mike before focusing his attention to the center of the table.

There was an awkward silence before all four of them tried to say hi at the same time.

They chuckled, thinking  _ of course _ but not daring to be the one to vocalize it. A soft silence followed, only disturbed by the sounds of Micky’s eating. 

“My god,” Davy muttered suddenly, but not out of the blue. All eyes went to him. “You eat like a pig. Anyone would think that you were raised in a barn.”  
  
Mike let out a stifled laugh at Micky’s eyes going wide. He swallowed down his hunk of food in surprise.

“Let’s see you eat then!” he cried, shoving the basket of fries across the table. 

Davy huffed, sitting up straight in his seat. He grabbed a few napkins from the dispenser and waved them out before gently placing one in his lap and one on the table in front of him. He carefully took a few fries and placed them parallel on the napkin, expertly cutting them into thirds.

He paused for a few seconds before grabbing the fry bits and aggressively shoving them in his face. 

All four of them laughed, Davy most of all, who needed extra napkins to wipe the grease off his face. Their laughter continued like air being let out of a balloon, and when they finally came back down to earth, they felt lighter. 

“These were free, by the way,” Micky said, picking out a fry. “So have at it. Chuck feeds his employees well.”

“Employees? You guys work here?” Peter asked. 

“No, we play gigs here. Two, three times a week,” Micky said between fries.

Peter hummed. “I used to play here too, but… but I stopped a few weeks ago.”

Mike’s jaw dropped. “You!” Peter cocked his head. “You’re the one who quit suddenly!”

“You quit Chuck’s too? Jeez man, you need to start giving a two weeks’ notice,” Micky mumbled.

“I always liked it here,” Peter said, looking around. “But I’d play alone and… I didn’t want to play without David.” It was then Peter realized what he had been doing for the last two weeks. Forcing Davy to do their set alone. He thought he was done quitting, but he had quit on the most important thing of them all.

“Oh Davy, I’m so sorry!” Peter cried suddenly, leaning into his friend and giving him a tight hug. “This whole time, I-- I’m sorry!”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Davy said soothingly, stealing a nervous glance across the table. He patted Peter’s back a few times before they broke apart. “I know you needed time. That’s alright.”

Mike and Micky watched, unsure of the details but confident they knew what was going on. They had this kind of talk at least once a week.

“Sorry, uh. Pete’s kind of going through a rough patch,” Davy said sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “His, uh. His dad--”

“--We know,” Mike and Micky responded in tandem. Mike cleared his throat, his eyes darting to the table. “We, uh, actually talked about it.” 

“You did?” Davy turned his head.

Peter nodded. “Yeah. It was nice, actually. Mike gets it.”

Mike’s face flushed red as Davy flashed him a look. 

“Yeah. I… can I ask you somethin’?” The words tumbled out of Mike’s mouth like water tumbling down into a waterfall. He normally kept his curiosity to himself, but something about the situation was slowly drawing it out of him.

Peter nodded, and Mike awkwardly continued. “Can I… uh, well, what happened between you and your dad?”

Mike closed his eyes, bracing for blowback, but it never came.

“Oh, it wasn’t like one major event. We’ve always been different. He's very conservative, and I’m a long-haired weirdo with a banjo. We’re just different people.”

“You seem so calm about it,” Mike observed. “I mean, not  _ totally _ calm, ‘cause, I mean, you’re fiddlin’ with your hands right now, but--but you talk so  _ freely  _ about it… I don’t understand. Even when we talked before the contest. Tellin’ that to someone like me… I don’t…”

“Well, someone like you is a musician who grew up without a good father figure,” Peter said, “so that makes you someone like me, too.” Mike’s face suddenly looked weary, and Peter gasped. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume anything or--”

“No, no, you’re right,” Mike said. “Just funny, is all.”

“What’s funny?”

“How easily you’re able to peg me,” Mike huffed a laugh. “Man, I was wrong about you.”

“Me? What about me?”

“I thought your whole happy-go-lucky thing was an act. A facade, or somethin’. To put people on.”

“Why would I ever do that?”

Mike shrugged, his cheeks burning. “Dunno. Sometimes people act a certain way to get close t’you, and then they stab you in the back.” He looked down at his folded hands on the tabletop, fully aware that everyone was staring at him. “Sorry, I… I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“...I know people like that,” Davy said quietly after a few beats of silence. “They act like your friend, but you’re just a prop, really. Something to make them look good.”

“Well, no one ever accused  _ me _ of lookin’ good,” Mike muttered, getting a good chuckle from the table. That made him smile.

“But that’s the best thing about Peter,” Davy said, wrapping his arm around his friend. “He’s as real as they get. A real groovy guy, if I do say so myself.”

“Mike won’t say it, but he thinks the same thing about me,” Micky whispered playfully, elbowing Mike with a smile. Mike nudged him back.

“I think it’s funny that we keep meeting,” Peter mused. “It’s like the forces of the universe are drawing us together.”

Everyone dwelled on that for a moment. It seemed absurd to pin their coincidences on unseen influence, but the more they thought about it…

“Me meeting Mike was totally by chance,” Micky said, giggling at the memory. “He was just wandering around and… he was leaving Al’s as I was coming in. He almost impaled me with his guitar. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“I met Davy the same way,” Peter smiled. “Except instead of hitting him with my guitar I needed a roommate and my friend recommended him to me.”

Micky shook his head. “How is that, in  _ any _ way, the same?”

“It’s funny,” Peter continued, “one of my roommates was his roommate’s best friend’s sister’s cousin’s friend’s friend.”

Mike and Micky stared blankly while Davy burst out laughing. “You remembered!”

Peter nodded. “I knew that would come in handy one day.”

“And you know, it’s New York, right? It’s expensive,” Davy said. “I needed someone to live with, and so did he.”

“So how did you end up out here?” Micky asked. “I mean… why leave New York? Especially if you were on Broadway?” He gestured to Davy.

“You know how acting is,” Davy said, crossing his arms. “It’s a tough business, it is. _Especially_ theater. I was gettin’ nowhere. I thought acting was the only way I could make people happy, but performing music like we do… it’s a rush, man. I needed a fresh start here.”

“New York was too close to my parents…” Peter mumbled. “So I thought, anyway.” 

Davy’s eyes darted to the door, which was getting more use now that the dinner rush was starting to pick up. He could tell Peter was getting increasingly uncomfortable -- not from conversation, but from the growing chance that anyone walking through that door could be his dad. 

“Oh. We’re out of fries,” Micky mumbled sadly, fiddling the empty basket. “Do you guys want more? I can ask Chuck.”

“No, that’s alright,” Davy said, still glancing up at the door. He wanted to leave, but he didn’t want the conversation to end. “Say, you’re from California, right?” 

“Me? Yeah,” Micky said.

“Do you know the best beaches around here?”

“Oh, they’re all groovy. El Matador, Leo Carillo, Venice Beach, obviously. Oh! The one down the road here is outtasite! It’s a little local spot, mostly private beaches, but they never care. It's got crazy rocks, man, they’re so cool. Have you been?”

Davy thought for a moment. He wanted to get out of here, but maybe not just the two of them. Peter saw something in Mike, and even if Davy would never understand, there was a bond there. Davy wasn’t going to be the one to ruin that, even if looking at Mike still made him tremble.

“...No, I haven’t,” he answered finally. “Maybe you could take us there?”

Davy found himself smiling at how excited Micky got. He gave Peter a reassuring smile as the four of them got up and pushed through the growing crowd to get out the door. Davy and Micky were both leading the charge for their respective friends and practically got stuck as they tried to push through the threshold.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do that,” Micky muttered, rubbing the side of his head that had bonked against the doorframe.

“We’ll work on it,” Davy muttered back, tracing his fingers along his ribcage. Micky almost missed the way Davy winced when he did that.

“You guys will love this place,” Micky said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He cleared his throat and held his hand up to his mouth as if he were holding a microphone. “Aaaand if you look to your left, you’ll see the world-famous  _ Chuck’s Diner! _ Made famous by its eccentric owner and even more eccentric customers! And if you look to your right, you’ll see the road! What a sight! You can’t find this anywhere else, folks!”

Micky fake-narrated their entire walk because nobody told him to stop. Nobody  _ wanted _ him to stop either, but Micky couldn’t believe he had been allowed to go on for more than five minutes without a scold or an eye roll. Even Mike was smirking at some of his comments. When they finally arrived at the foot of the beach, Micky, still in tourist guide mode, instructed everyone to take off their shoes to get “the full effect” of the beach. Mike didn’t, but Micky let it slide. He showed them the funny rocks where not even 12 hours ago Davy had left his shoes. He pointed to all the beach houses, breaking character momentarily to lament about his desire to live in one. Everyone agreed that it would be much too expensive, especially for a musician. They stopped to marvel at the sunset, which was orange and golden and pink and red all at the same time. Each of them focused on a different color, but they all agreed that the colors worked wonderfully together to create something beautiful.

It was getting fairly dark when they reached the end of the beach. Micky was practically doing cartwheels as they approached a large clump of rocks.

“...and finally, folks, we’ve reached the final destination. The creme de la creme. The ultimate secret spot, the grooviest place you’ve never heard of!”

Everyone looked around at what appeared to be a big pile of sand.

“...this looks like everything else we’ve seen,” Davy made the mistake of saying.

“Ah ah ah, rookie mistake there, buddy,” Micky said cheekily, opting to pat Davy on the shoulder instead of slapping him on the back. “Just… watch…  _ this _ .” Micky had stuck his arm into a small, natural hole in the rocks. He pulled out several sticks and a few pieces of driftwood, as well as a bag of marshmallows, graham crackers and a few bars of chocolate. “This, my friends, is my secret s’mores stash.”

“That can’t be sanitary,” Peter remarked, earning another smirk from Mike.

“The bacteria will burn away when we start the fire!” Micky said, dropping the materials into the empty space next to him.

“The fire?” Mike asked quietly, to which Davy and Peter shrugged. Micky pulled a lighter from his pocket, squatted down and held his hand out for what had to be a full minute before the branches caught.

“How often do you do this?” Mike whispered, crouching down so only Micky could hear him.

Micky shrugged. “Often enough to keep food stashed away.”

“You never took me here before,” Mike mumbled, shooting a glance at Peter and Davy.

“You never asked!”

Mike opened his mouth to respond, but Micky shot up and ran a few yards away to gather some small rocks. 

“The reason I come here is ‘cause it’s shielded from the wind,” Micky explained, placing the rocks in a circle around the fire. “It still gets enough of a breeze to keep the fire going, but not enough to blow it out completely. Plus, nobody ever walks back here, so the cops can’t catch me for having a fire on the beach.”

“Wait wait wait. This is illegal?” Davy asked.

“Sure is!” Micky replied happily.

“Oh, that makes me want to do it even more,” Peter said, sitting criss-cross in the sand. “Do you have sticks for the marshmallows?”

Micky scoffed. “What is this, amateur hour? Here.” He reached into his back pocket and handed everyone a thin twig. “Dig in.”

Mike surveyed the scene, watching silently as the three other boys began to get their s’mores together. There was a warmth in Mike’s stomach, and it wasn’t because of the fire.

“This is… far out, Mick,” Mike said, again leaning in so only Micky could hear. Micky smiled, pulling a marshmallow from the bag and shoving it onto Mike’s stick.

“Pete! Catch!” Micky threw Peter a marshmallow, which he caught with ease and gently slid onto his stick. Davy had already started roasting three of his own.

“What? You don’t think we have s’mores back in England too?” he joked when he caught everyone staring at him.

“Thought it was only fish and chips,” Micky shot back as he took a seat in the sand.

“And crumpets. Don’t forget the crumpets,” Peter said.

“You bloody idiots are forgetting the most important thing! Tea!” Davy cried, thickening his accent for dramatic effect. “You don’t happen to have a stash of earl grey here too, do you?”

“Welcome to America, land of processed goods,” Micky smiled, twirling his marshmallow over the flames.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Peter said, reaching for a piece of chocolate. “All of us, here together, sharing marshmallows and memories. Not even a month ago Michael punched David in the face!”

Mike was lucky it was dark enough that nobody could see how red his cheeks were. Peter looked around, wondering why Davy and Micky were looking at him funny. Mike’s mind, though, quickly pivoted to something else. 

“Why do you call him David?”

Peter cocked his head. “Hm?”

“You keep calling him David. And you call me Michael, too. But I prefer Mike, and I think he prefers Davy.”

Peter shrugged. “I think people shy away from their full names when they want to present a different version of themselves to the world. There’s something grounding about calling someone their full name.” In his head, he laughed at the irony. “Like I’m speaking to the real them.”   
  
Mike sniffed a laugh. “That’s quite philosophical for someone who’s not smokin’ grass right now.”

“Oh, I would never,” Peter smiled as he bit into his s'more. “Who knows where I would end up if I ever got high.”

“Probably halfway to Jupiter,” Davy muttered, turning his head up to the sky. 

“Did you guys know you can see Jupiter?” Micky said, scooting over to Davy. “Look. Right up there. It’s the brightest thing in the sky.”

“I always thought that was the North Star. You know, the brightest star in the sky.” 

“‘S actually a myth,” Mike said. He pursed his lips when Davy turned to him, curious as much as he was intimidated. “The North Star is just the brightest in the Little Dipper. Sirius is the brightest star, but not the same as Jupiter. Stars twinkle, and planets don’t.”

“Who invited this astronomer to our campfire?” Micky joked. 

“I didn’t know you were into astrology,” Peter said. “When’s your birthday?”

Mike blinked. “Uh. I’m not, really. It’s December 30.”  
  
Davy smiled. “Oh! That’s my birthday too!”

Peter hummed. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.” He put his finger to his chin and observed Mike for a moment. “Yeah, you’re definitely a Capricorn. No wonder you and Davy are so similar.”

“What’s that supposed t’mean?” Mike sneered as the marshmallow he was toasting for much too long caught fire. He quickly blew it out.

“Well, you’re both very stubborn,” Peter stated. “Davy’s very motivated by success, and I bet you are, too.”

“Of course he is,” Micky interjected. “He punched someone to prove it!”

“Micky,” Mike scolded, his eyes cast downward. Everyone was looking at him now.

“Oh! Do me! Do me!” Micky said, bouncing up and down. “I was born on--”

Peter held up his hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me. You’re a Pisces.”

Micky shrugged. “I dunno. March 8?”

“Yes! Oh, I knew it. You’re a  _ classic _ Pisces. Very excitable, very emotional. Very personable. And really creative.”

“Jeez, we really got the short stick, didn’t we?” Davy sighed, sharing an amused glance with Mike.

“Oh, but Pisces are also very over-emotional. They let their hearts get in the way of their heads almost every time and that can result in consuming negativity. And sometimes they’re too idealistic and not grounded enough in reality.”

“Okay, now you’re starting to scare me,” Micky laughed nervously. 

“What about you, mate?” Davy poked Peter. “What are you?”

“Aquarius.”

“So? What’s that mean?” Micky probed.

“Well, they tend to be very loyal and very independent. And very free-spirited.”

“I could’ve guessed that,” Davy mumbled.

“But also very impulsive. Very unpredictable. My morals are constantly changing as I learn more about the world.”

“You know, I never believed this zodiac mumbo-jumbo,” Micky said, finishing the last of his s’more. “The stars and the planets can’t determine who you are. You’re just telling us our personality traits you already knew about. It’s not scientific.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Once you open your mind to the possibility of otherworldly forces, things start to make a lot more sense.”

“Are you sure you didn’t put something in these s’mores?” Davy asked, observing his dessert. 

“Sorry,” Peter blushed. “This environment is so relaxing. The fire, the waves, the open night sky…”

“...it’s good for thinkin,” Mike finished. He cocked his head up, squinting as hard as he could to try and pick out constellations. “Back in Texas, I used to sit outside and just look up at the stars for hours. You could see millions of ‘em. Was the only way I could get alone time.”

“I did the same,” Peter replied. “I would sit out on my roof and stare through the trees.”

“Are you  _ sure _ you don’t smoke?” Davy pressed. Peter just laughed.

“I always just came to the beach or went on a walk,” Micky said. “I never really went to the beach after August, though, with school and all… it always felt different. It’s actually… really nice right now.”

“I’ve barely ever been to the beach,” Davy said. “And seein’ the sky in England? Forget it. It was clouds and that’s it. I kept myself busy, though. No time to stop and smell the roses.”

“Oh, but roses smell so wonderful,” Peter frowned.

“My mom had roses in her garden,” Micky sighed in reminiscence.

Davy giggled. “If you think me and Mike are similar, you two must’ve been separated at birth, then. You both have the attention span of a peanut.”

Both Micky and Peter frowned and yelled “Hey!” at the same time. 

“We’re not that similar,” Micky protested.

“Yeah!” Peter agreed. “We couldn’t have been separated at birth. I’m an only child.”

“Yeah! And I have three sisters. And Peter’s dad is a maniac and my dad… well, my dad was pretty awesome.” Micky stayed silent for a few moments before he realized everyone was looking at him. He kept his gaze firmly on the crackling fire in front of him. “My dad died when I was in high school. We all knew it was coming, really. He had cancer. He was the grooviest, man. The best part about him was how much he supported me. I wanted to be just like him, and he wanted me to be just like him, too. That’s why he named me after him.” The fire popped loudly, completely engulfing Micky’s marshmallow in orange flames. “He introduced me to all his actor friends… got me auditions with producers he knew. He wanted me to be an actor. I want to be a director, too, but that’s just a silly fantasy. He told me it probably wouldn’t happen, so he helped me focus on acting. He thought the music thing made me stand out. It’s… it’s weird being the only guy in the house. And the funniest part is, my sisters look up to me but they look up to my mom even more! She’s way more put together than me, so it makes sense.” He pulled his marshmallow from the fire, and it was so charred it fell off in one piece and melted on the firewood. “Aw, jeez. That was too much, wasn’t it?”

“That’s a Pisces for you,” Peter mumbled, earning glares from everyone.

“Nah, mate, it's groovy of you to share that with us. You got to know your dad. I… I never did.” Davy winced, as if his thoughts could grip him and toss him to the side. “It’s alright, though. Me grandfather was enough. I wouldn’t have any work ethic without him.”

“I mean, you left your entire  _ country _ behind to come here, man. That’s far out.” 

Davy shrugged. “It was the only way to feel like I could accomplish something great. And hey, this is the right time in history for British people to be comin’ to America, anyway.”

“I still can’t fathom why you left  _ Broadway _ to come out here,” Micky said. “I’ve never been to New York, but man. What a city.”

Mike was sitting at an angle where he could catch the looks on Davy’s face. He didn’t notice it before, but when Micky started talking about New York, his hand moved up to his stomach and rubbed it a bit. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew it couldn’t have been good. He was no stranger to that type of reaction.

“You’re lucky, Micky,” Peter started. “You didn’t have to move very far at all. Davy’s got me beat, but California is so different from Connecticut. It still makes me dizzy how far I’d have to drive to leave the state. I’m used to a three-hour drive bringing me to New York, New Hampshire, Vermont, Maine, Rhode Island, Massachusetts… wherever I wanted to go.”

“You’ve been to all those places?” Micky asked in awe.

Peter nodded. “Oh yeah. Multiple times. It was the only way to get away from home.”

“I don’t blame ya. Connecticut seems boring.”

“It can be, but I didn’t leave because it wasn’t my bag. I left because I felt trapped by my parents. They’re both academics, you know. Traditional people. Very scholarly, very by-the-book.” He looked to the ground. “Very closed-minded.”

“So, the complete opposite of you,” Micky laughed.

“All I ever wanted to do was make them happy. And when I couldn’t do that, then I figured I’d just make everyone else happy. If my parents weren’t going to like my music, then I was going to find people who would.” Peter tapped his pocket. “And I did.”

A comfortable silence fell over the group as the fire continued to crackle. They had exhausted the marshmallow supply after they abandoned the idea of carefully constructing a s’more every time they wanted to eat. Mike found himself nibbling on a graham cracker when he noticed everyone’s gaze had gone to him. He cocked his head.

“Well, go on then!” Davy said assertively.

“Whu?” Mike asked with a mouth full of crumbs.

“It’s your turn to spill your deep secrets,” Micky grinned impishly.

“Yeah. All of us did. You have to do it, too.”

Mike swallowed and shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ to say.”

“Sure there is! Why don’t you tell them about all your siblings--”

“ _ Micky _ ,” Mike scolded, but it was too late. Micky’s eyes went wide, mouthing _sorry_ at his mistake.

“Ooh! Siblings!” Peter smiled. “How many?”

Mike sighed. “Six. Seven kids, includin’ me. Three younger sisters, three younger brothers.”

“My god!” Davy started. “Seven bloody kids. I could never deal with that. One sister’s enough for me.”

“You have a sister?” Peter gasped. “You didn’t tell me!”

“She’s almost 12 years older than me,” Davy confessed. “I barely know her.”

“You should phone her and invite her to America!” Micky chimed in. “I bet she’d like it.”

“I don’t even know what her number is. And we don’t even own a phone.”

“I’ve got one. You should come over sometime and use it.” 

“It  _ would  _ be nice for all of us to hang out again,” Peter posited.

“I dunno. We’re all pretty busy,” Davy hesitated. 

“We’re all musicians! Since we’re not fighting anymore, helping each other musically would really be a gas,” Peter said, more firmly this time, as if it were a proclamation. “Having friends you can count on… it’s cool, man. I don’t know where I’d be right now without Davy." He laughed. "Probably still living in a closet.” 

“I’d still be gettin’ -- I’d be livin’ with some stranger,” Davy said softly.

“I’d be slaving away at my boring retail job if I didn’t meet Mike,” Micky said, slinging his arm around the Texan. “I’d probably have kept my drum kit shoved away in the closet.”

“I’d still be sleepin’ on the streets,” Mike muttered, too soft for Davy and Peter’s ears to pick up over the fire.

Peter’s smile was ear-to-ear, which made Davy smile, too. With the way things had been going for them, they had no idea how much they needed a night like this.

“Say, I’ve got an idea,” Peter said, reaching down to his guitar case. “What’s a campfire without some campfire songs!”

“You brought your guitar! Far out!” Micky cheered.

“Woah,” Mike said to himself, once again admiring Peter’s guitar as. He was almost forgetting about his new thousand-dollar guitar sitting in the living room back home.

“I’ve listened to this record so many times to get this half-right,” Peter smiled, lifting his hand up and producing a mighty strum. Even though it was slightly off, it was instantly recognizable --  _ A Hard Day’s Night.  _ Davy jumped in with vocals automatically, and when the first chorus came, Micky sang, to the delight of everyone. He began harmonizing with Davy in the second verse, and when they broke away for Peter’s guitar solo, Mike, with nothing else to do but be in awe of how well Micky’s voice blended with Davy’s, found himself clapping to the beat. When the song ended, they all whooped and cheered and wiped the sweat from their foreheads.

“That was  _ outta site _ ,” Micky breathed, giving Peter a friendly punch on the shoulder. “What is that opening chord, anyway?”

“I’ve no clue,” Peter said. “It’s so complex, it’s fascinating. It’s definitely a G, but there’s elements of an F and a D minor in there, and that’s not even getting into pandiatonic harmony. It took me months to try and figure it out. George played it on a 12-string, so I can’t even begin to recreate the sound on this.”

“Mike has a 12-string!” Micky said happily.

“You do?” Peter gasped. “That’s groovy, man.”

Mike shrugged. “Micky got it for me. Haven’t had a chance to play it yet.”

“‘Ey, you shouldn’t’ve quit that store. You could have gotten us free instruments,” Davy joked, sticking his tongue out at Peter.

“It wasn’t free!” Micky cried. “I paid a lot for it.”

“You and Davy sound so natural together,” Peter observed. “It’s like your voices were meant to be together.”

“Aww, Davy, we’re meant to be!” Micky yelled playfully, giving Davy a sloppy hug which he immediately rejected. 

“We did sound pretty groovy,” Davy admitted, giving Micky one last shove. 

“Do you want to try?” Peter asked, noticing the way Mike was staring at the guitar. He held it out, careful not to keep it too close to the fire. “I already know you can play great on it.”

“Well, not  _ that _ great,” Mike said. He was still reeling from the way Peter maneuvered  _ A Hard Day’s Night. _

“C’mon, Mike! Show us whatcha got!” Micky cheered. 

“Okay, okay,” Mike said, blushing, as he took the guitar from Peter. He felt it up and down, just like he did last time, only now he was sitting around a fire in a secret beach spot with people he considered to be his friends. Whether they thought he was their friend was a different story. He had to thank Micky later for this beautiful spot. He wished he had known about it sooner. The feeling of tranquility that was washing over him was so overwhelming yet so familiar. Why it was familiar, he didn’t know. He hadn’t felt this relaxed around people before. Not in a long time.

He shut his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath before starting something that nobody recognized. Knowing that Micky had no idea what he had been working on, he prepared himself to sing.

“ _ I can tell by your face _

_ That you’re looking to find a place _

_ To settle your mind and reveal who you are _

_ And you shouldn’t be shy _

_ For I’m not going to try _

_ To hurt you _

_ Or heal you _

_ Or steal your star _

_ Open your eyes _

_ Get up off that couch _

_ There’s so much to do in the sunlight _

_ Give up your secrets _

_ And grow out your hair _

_ And sit…”  _

Mike paused for the briefest of moments. He had made up the second part of the lyrics on the spot, and he lost focus before his eyes flickered to what had been right in front of him this entire time.

_ “And sit with me here by the firelight.” _

Everyone was silent.

Peter had subconsciously scooted closer to the fire because he had started to get chills. Davy stared blankly, trying his best not to show any emotion. And Micky… Micky’s face glistened, from both his radiant smile and the tears that were shimmering on his cheeks. Mike had remembered his song. Mike had put work into his song. Mike had sung his song with a southern twang. Mike had  _ made his song a billion times better than it was ever going to be _ . He knew what every word meant, what every breath between signaled, what every chord change and strum and foot tap in the sand was. He admired how the flames licked the air to the beat of Mike’s playing. How each crackle and pop were perfectly timed, like it was singing and playing along. It was so poignant, so perfect, that in this moment, Micky had no idea how it was ever going to get better than this.

In this moment, there was nothing he needed to say. 

“Did you just make that up?” Peter asked, breaking the silence and trying to read Micky’s expression.

“It’s… it was Micky’s song,” Mike said stiffly, as if he had just learned those words and was trying them out for the first time. “The first part was his. The second part, I just sang off the top of my head. I’ve been workin’ on the music.” Mike allowed himself to laugh. “It sounds better when he sings it.” 

Micky just shook his head.

“Well, I totally dig it,” Peter said, admiration dripping from his voice. “Was that five-four?”

“Yeah. ‘S the only way I can make it work right now.”

“Jeez, aren’t you two a couple of right musicians,” Davy muttered. “Speakin’ another bloody language.”

“Don’t sweat it, David, you don’t have to know the jargon to be a musician. You just have to feel it, dig?” Peter paused for a moment. “We started arguing with each other because we didn’t want the other’s help, and now we’re sitting around a campfire playing music for each other. You know, I think we’d make a pretty great band together.”

Everyone awkwardly laughed for a moment at the absurdity of that thought. But Peter and Davy quickly met gazes: it  _ was _ absurd… right?

Mike and Micky looked at each other knowingly, and a smile grew across both their faces. Micky took notice of the way Mike’s smile looked almost forced, but the crinkle in the corners of his eyes were a dead giveaway of his sincerity. They knew what the other was thinking.

It didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gah! it's done! somehow, this short drabble turned into a small novel over the course of four months. from the bottom of my heart, thank you thank you THANK YOU all for reading, commenting, kudos-ing and sticking with this. i really can't tell you enough how much your kind words mean to me. as i've said many a time, this is my first start-to-finish story and i still can't believe i actually did it (even if the ending was a little predictable!) 
> 
> i don't want to make big promises but i really really want to continue this! probably in a slice-of-life, one-shot kind of way. i just love them so much and there is still so much to explore with everyone. yall are the best for keeping this fandom alive and keeping someone like me, who just got into the monkees in october, engaged and making me feel welcomed. 
> 
> peace and love and all that groovy stuff!


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